


The Ghost And Mr Baggins

by perkynurples



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - The Ghost And Mrs Muir Fusion, Gen, Haunted Houses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 76,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3949456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that everything can be cured by saltwater - sweat, tears or the sea.  Bilbo Baggins chooses the last option, taking his recently orphaned nephew and moving to the charming Oak Cottage, overlooking England’s grislier shores. The house charms him instantly, and though he knows nothing at all about the sea, or about making ends meet on his own so far from everything he’s known his whole life for that matter, he’s quite determined to stay, and see his nephew get better, odd sounds in the night be damned. He’s living in a modern world, after all, and the nonsense he’s been hearing about the house being haunted by its former owner, the mysterious Captain Durin, is just silly superstition… isn’t it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for this year's Hobbit Big Bang! :)
> 
> I've been fortunate enough to have a number of amazing artists create works for this fic, and I'll be posting the links to all of it here, as well as a masterpost on [my Tumblr](bilboo.tumblr.com). Feedback either there or here is very much appreciated! :)
> 
>  
> 
> **Art Masterpost**
> 
>  
> 
> The painting of the Captain himself [HERE](http://evil-bones-mccoy.tumblr.com/post/119108528889/a-half-swallowed-curse-escapes-him-when-he-meets) and Bilbo and Frodo deciding to stay at the house [HERE](http://evil-bones-mccoy.tumblr.com/post/119126135678/do-you-want-to-stay-here-bilbo-asks-him), both by the wonderful [evil-bones-mccoy](http://evil-bones-mccoy.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thorin, Bilbo and Frodo (and seagulls!) [HERE](http://ineffablemess.tumblr.com/post/119129672160/contribution-for-the-hobbit-big-bang-and-for-the) by the amazing [ineffablemess](http://ineffablemess.tumblr.com).
> 
> The cilantro incident in beautiful comic page format [HERE](http://madswaggins.tumblr.com/post/120398218226/they-say-that-everything-can-be-cured-by-saltwater) by the glorious [madswaggins](http://madswaggins.tumblr.com).
> 
> Scenery around the Cottage at day and night, and the telescope [HERE](http://griffonskies.tumblr.com/post/119427282276/contribution-for-the-hobbit-big-bang) by the lovely griffonskies.
> 
> And last but not least, Bilbo, Thorin and little Frodo from beginning to end [HERE](http://m-sock.tumblr.com/post/119941408687/hobbit-big-bang-entry-the-ghost-and-mr-baggins-by) by the ever-enthusiastic [m-sock](http://m-sock.tumblr.com).

“I've made up my mind.”

“But Bilbo-”

“Don't you _but Bilbo_ me, Lobelia. It's decided.”

The floorboards creak under the boy's cautious step, but fortunately, the conversation behind the door that serves as his hiding place and listening spot both, carries on.

“Well, I suppose I should have known, shouldn't I. You just don't handle grief very well at all, I'm sorry to say. We all saw it back when your parents died-”

“Don't you bring my parents into this,” Bilbo sounds angry for a second, “besides, this has nothing to do with _my_ grief. I sincerely believe that the lad could use a change of scenery, and some fresh air in his lungs.”

“It's the _sea,_ Bilbo. How fresh can the air get?!”

“It's very healthy. You should read up on it. Certainly better than the city, I think we can both agree.”

“Now you're just being ridiculous! You would take the boy away from his home-”

“He doesn't _have_ a home anymore, Lobelia! He doesn't have a school to go to next year, either, or anything tying him down to this place but dreadful memories, do you understand that?”

Silence reigns for a moment, and the boy holds his breath in, for fear of but a single gasp betraying his presence.

“Still,” Aunt Lobelia is quieter now, but no less bitter it seems, “you are being reckless. If it were up to me...-”

“Fortunately, it is _not_ up to you anymore,” Bilbo retorts resolutely, “and you have no say in this matter whatsoever, is that clear?”

“I always knew you were a selfish one, Bilbo Baggins,” Aunt Lobelia refuses to give up, and something worrisome flutters in the boy's chest at the venom in her voice, “we've offered you both shelter and food, clothed the boy and provided for him, given you all the time and space in the world to get on with your life, and this is how you repay us?!”

He hears Bilbo's sigh like the rustling of old paper, and then a strangely cheery: “Believe what you will. This is happening.”, and before he knows it, his Uncle is opening the door right into his face, looking rightly bewildered, before he recognizes what's going on, shuts the door with a click and a sigh, and reaches to ruffle his hair.

“It doesn't do to listen in on other people's conversations, you know,” he scolds, but isn't really angry, not like he was with Aunt Lobelia just now, the boy knows.

“Are we really going to the sea?” he asks, and Bilbo looks at him silently for a moment, his eyes a bit odd and shiny, before smiling, thumb stroking his cheek.

“Yes, Frodo, my lad, I believe we are.”

-

 

The sea roars. It is the first thing that catches his attention – just how loud it is, getting louder and louder as their motor car rattles up the crooked, narrow road and closer to the cliffs. Even all the way over here, the air smells of it, damp but fresh, salt and wind, and Frodo and him gasp in unison when they finally see it, the sheer mass of it below them – a wild, deep grey-blue speckled with the bright white of foam, it sways and sings, waves breaking against dark rocks, their jagged edges making them resemble some slumbering creatures, biding their time on the shore, their talons digging into the sand.

They hear the cry of a seagull, and then another, and another one, and raise their heads reverently to follow their flight, quick silver darts against the blue sky, cackling and squabbling so loud they overpower the crashing of the waves deep, deep down below them.

“To the left,” the driver announces, “there it is.”

“Frodo, look,” Bilbo nudges the boy, patting his hand gently, and he tears his eyes away from the sky and looks where Bilbo is pointing – Bilbo's delighted to see at least some spark of excitement in his nephew's eyes, though he says nothing.

The road winds down a grassy hill and indeed to the left, away from the somewhat menacing display of the rocks and the cliffs, and follows the line of the shore more or less neatly. They see sheep grazing on the grass, and to the right there is the beach, way ahead and downhill, and the only way down to it, to the golden sand and the scattered cypresses, is from the house.

It stands overlooking the entire cove, guarded by yet more cliffs on one side, and half-sunken in overgrown greenery. And yet, it shines like some long-forgotten jewel, its bleached white walls and the high afternoon sun reflecting in its windows, and though Bilbo is perfectly ready to discover much less exciting details up close, he is already quite charmed by it.

“Oak Cottage,” the driver announces, as if it pains him to even say those words out loud – his name is Alfrid Lickspittle, an employee of the real estate agency through which Bilbo has been setting up their new home, and he is quite the cheery fellow, if a bit... greasy. Or _was,_ until Bilbo expressed interest in this particular house.

“Why is it called that, anyway?” Bilbo wonders, “I see no oak anywhere.”

“No idea,” Alfrid sighs, “there _is_ quite a dreadful-looking monkey puzzle tree growing out by the garden, but I suppose that wouldn't have made for a very good name.”

“Monkey puzzle,” Bilbo repeats those words to Frodo, “quite a silly name for a tree, don't you think?”

A distant smile dances on the boy's lips, but he remains quiet otherwise. He's always quiet.

 

The tree in question turns out to be particularly ugly, some exotic thing the previous owner had brought from abroad apparently, and it casts a shadow over the entire house, that much is obvious from where they're standing by the picket fence and the small gate, which turns out to be broken – only the first of many things, as it happens.

The stone steps they ascend carefully are cracked and long-unused, covered by some sort of moss or lichen, and the railing by them is mostly just rotting away. The front of the house seems in solid enough shape, if a bit... forlorn, and Frodo squeezes Bilbo's hands tight as they look up at its two stories, his eyes large, fright mixed with excitement.

“Well well,” Bilbo smiles at him, squeezing back to reassure him, “what do you say we take a peek inside?”

Frodo nods, and to Bilbo's surprise, lets go of his hand and trots up to the front door, the old wood of the veranda creaking softly under his step, and Bilbo hurries to follow him – only after they try in vain to see past the curtains draped over the tall windows do they notice that their guide isn't with them.

“What's the matter?” Bilbo asks, the man lingering behind and looking rather gloomy, “did you forget the keys?”

“No, no, no such thing, it's just that... Well, I told you back at the agency, and you didn't believe me, but you can see it now for yourself, this house is utterly unsuited to your needs. It's much too large for just two people, and...”

“Is there a problem with the house, Mister Lickspittle?” Bilbo tilts his head, “is the plumbing faulty? Or perhaps the gas?”

“What – of course not!” the man puffs up, all professional pride, “we at Laketown Realtors make sure that all our houses are in top notch condition at all times!”

“Well then I see no reason why we shouldn't see the inside,” Bilbo says kindly, but firmly, and Mister Lickspittle glares at him silently for a moment, as if he expects him to change his mind still, but then he deflates, and rummages through his belongings for the keys, muttering something incomprehensible, all the while looking more and more miserable.

A sudden loud knock startles Bilbo, but he quickly realizes it's just Frodo trying the front door with unexpected vigor.

“I don't think anyone's home, lad,” Bilbo chuckles, laying a hand on his shoulder and gently steering him out of the way, so that Alfrid may approach and unlock the door, “how long did you say the house has been abandoned for?”

“Five years now,” the realtor sighs, “though _abandoned_ is not the word I'd use.”

Bilbo doesn't have any time to ask what he means by that, though, because the door swings open entirely silently (where he'd somehow expected it to creak all ominously), and Mister Lickspittle lets them inside. The foyer is sunken in utter darkness, and because Alfrid doesn't seem to want to move from the doorway, Bilbo takes it upon himself to draw the curtains open and let some light in.

“Oh my,” he sighs, “well that's quite lovely, don't you think, Frodo?”

The boy says nothing yet again, simply hurries to emulate his Uncle, struggling to draw the heavy curtains off the tall arched windows, and eventually, they succeed together – once uncovered, the windows provide enough light to travel all the way inside, past the alcove next to the front door itself, revealing that the floorboards aren't in fact in the least moldy or some dreadful dark color like Bilbo had feared, but a pleasant honey brown, if a bit dusty, just like everything else. Above their heads sways a chandelier that seems rather unsuited for a place like this, and Bilbo already accounts for the amount of time it would take to clean all of its tinkling glass parts, dear god. The stairway directly in front of them is a tad narrow, but all in all, Bilbo can't wait to walk up it and see the second floor, and has to stop Frodo from doing the same.

“Don't wander off, now,” he reminds him, and the boy clutches onto his hand dutifully.

“This way,” Mister Lickspittle announces a tad tensely, and leads them to the left, where the kitchen turns out to be – the air is much colder here, the smell of stale, long-unused furbishing somewhat stronger, but Bilbo doesn't let that discourage him in the slightest. Yet another window is uncovered, casting light on a beautiful stove and the cupboards above it, an old solid workbench and a stone floor... With some dusting, Bilbo can see this spot cozying up and filling with warmth in no time.

“See, everything in perfect order,” Mister Lickspittle announces somewhat sourly when he manages to get the lights working, and Bilbo can only wonder why he keeps looking around his shoulder as if he thinks there might be someone else in the room with them.

“What is it, Frodo?” he asks when the boy's tugging at the hem of his overcoat becomes incessant – his nephew says nothing, simply points back into the foyer, an urgency to his eyes that Bilbo can't quite understand.

“Don't worry, we'll go see the rest in no time,” he reassures him, “or did you want to wait outside? Do you not want to see the other rooms?”

Frodo begins to shake his head in disapproval, but then his gaze unfocuses, and he tilts his head, as if he's listening to... well, to something only he can hear.

“What is it, lad?” Bilbo asks more curiously now, and pays no mind to their guide, who disappears into the adjacent room, nattering on about ships and the sea and whatnot.

Frodo makes to dash off, but is at the same time reluctant to let go of Bilbo, looking up at him, blue eyes worried.

“Do you hear something?” Bilbo wonders, and when the lad nods fervently, he ruffles his hair and promises, “we'll go exploring that in a bit, alright? Let's go see the next room now.”

Frodo follows him a bit reluctantly, and keeps looking over his shoulder all the way to what happens to be a rather lovely dining room. Bilbo understands all the sailor talk now – there are at least four different paintings of ships and seascapes on the walls, as well as a collection of other paraphernalia, shells displayed next to tea sets in a glass case by the far wall and even what seems to be a whaling spear, if Bilbo can be any judge of that, hoisted above the large round table itself.

But all of that be damned, he's more interested in the garden that is revealed to be practically growing into the room through the back porch when they uncover the windows here, too. It's a right wilderness, the lawn unkempt and the bushes left untrimmed for years, and certainly no flowerbeds to speak of, but oh, there's potential, of course there is.

“Lovely,” he exhales, letting go of Frodo's hand as he struggles to open the door that leads onto the back porch, and Mister Lickspittle looks at him in disbelief.

“The only thing that might help this _forest_ is a carefully controlled fire, if you ask me,” he grumbles, and Bilbo laughs, inhaling fresh air once again, the door having swung open much more easily than anticipated, as if someone's been keeping all the joints and handles oiled all this time.

“Don't be ridiculous, it's beautiful. Or will be again, with a bit of work,” he decides, “was the previous owner big on gardening, then?”

“Of course not, he was a sailor,” Alfrid sighs, as if merely mentioning the previous mystery inhabitant of Oak Cottage might get him into trouble, “it was his sister who kept the house for him when he was away, I believe she was the one behind all this.”

“I see,” Bilbo smiles, “well, she certainly had a taste for plants, look at those beautiful roses there! With a bit of trimming, of course... Hmm, yes. I can't imagine she was too happy about the addition of that dreadful tree in the front, but that we can get rid of _that_ easily enough, don't you think, Frodo... Frodo?”

Far too late does Bilbo realize that his nephew isn't with him – he looks around, realizing with some dread that he doesn't remember where he saw him last, and hurries back into the dining room.

“Frodo?” he calls, “lad, where are you?”

He hears some scuttling from way back into the house, and tries to find his way back through the kitchen, followed by the awfully antsy Mister Lickspittle.

“Frodo? Where have you disappeared off to? Sir, are there any rooms off limits in here? Any place one might get lost in?”

“No, of course not. All the rooms are unlocked, except for the attic, but that's simply because we've never been quite able to find a fitting key, and the lock keeps protesting despite our best attempts to...-”

They hear it then, a frightened squeal, and Bilbo's heart performs a nasty leap.

“Frodo?!” he calls out, dashing back into the foyer.

The boy stands in the winged door half ajar, leading to yet another room, turned away from them and staring intently at something, and Bilbo hurries to him.

“Frodo, are you alright?! What happened – oh _mother of-_ ”

A half swallowed curse escapes him when he meets with the glare of the most piercing pair of eyes he's ever seen – it takes him embarrassingly long to realize that he's not looking at a real person, but rather a painting, hung in such a way that it faces the doorway directly. He can't blame Frodo for getting frightened by _that_ – the light from the foyer illuminates it so that the man appears very much alive, and a small part of Bilbo is very glad it isn't so anymore, because imagining meeting someone so ominous-looking in real life gives him goosebumps.

“It's just a painting,” he reassures Frodo, small, cold fingers slipping into his grasp and clutching tight, “nothing to be afraid of.”

“The owner himself,” Mister Lickspittle announces like he has a personal grudge to settle with the man, “Captain Durin.”

Frodo still refuses to cross the threshold of that particular room, and so Bilbo stays with him while Alfrid goes about letting some light in, and the painting looks on – Captain Durin has a very stern, handsome face, all sharp regal angles, his beard trimmed short and neat, hair slicked back under his cap, the brass buttons of his uniform shining, and he looks very proud, and very, _very_ displeased with something.

Inexplicably drawn to him and very much curious to find out how he'd died, Bilbo can't seem to look away for the longest time, until Frodo tugs at his hand once more and demands they explore this room at last. It's a beautiful sitting room, bookshelves lining the walls all but overflowing, a sofa in very good shape, if Bilbo is any judge of that, but he still can't quite concentrate on much else beyond the painting of the Captain – its eyes seem to follow him around the room, and he finds himself glancing back at it time and time again.

“Well, I think you've seen enough, haven't you?” Mister Lickspittle declares very tensely, looking fretfully out of the window, as if he's expecting someone else to come by, “there's a lovely property not far from here, Westfarthing Lodgings, you remember me telling you about it, don't you, Master Baggins? Somewhat pricier, but very comfortable...”

“I must say, Mister Lickspittle,” Bilbo measures him curiously, “you seem very adamant to keep me away from _this_ particular house. What is it you're not telling me? If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're worried it's haunted, or some such nonsense.”

The man looks a perfect picture of desperation then, glancing from Bilbo to Frodo, who now seems very interested in idly picking at the wooden frame of one of the windows.

“Well, I didn't mean to scare the boy,” Alfrid says quietly, as if even allowing himself to let out those words shames him deeply, “and of course that we at Laketown Realtors don't believe in such nonsense, we live in a modern world after all...”

“But?” Bilbo nudges gently.

“But... You see, some of the locals seem to think that the house is... in fact...”

“Haunted?” Bilbo finishes for him with a chuckle, “by whom? The late Captain, I expect?”

At that very moment, a great creak comes from somewhere above their heads, and the realtor jumps like a spooked mouse, while Frodo yelps in surprise and hurries back to hold onto Bilbo's sleeve.

“Well,” Alfrid shrugs, as if the wind playing in the rafters is explanation enough, and Bilbo quirks an eyebrow.

“How terribly exciting,” he grins, “I think we should like to see the upstairs now, wouldn't we, Frodo?”

Mister Lickspittle looks utterly defeated, but having presumably run out of arguments, he complies, leading the way out of the room – Bilbo casts the strange painting one last look, only to think of its pensive, piercing glare all the way up the creaking wooden stairs.

The second floor is comprised of one smaller bedroom, yet another sitting room, the aforementioned locked door to the attic (Mister Lickspittle acts with true horror when Bilbo gives it a tug, and seems on the verge of just turning on his heel and leaving when the rafters moan and creak again), and then the rather splendid master bedroom – Bilbo enters the room with awe, and Frodo slips from his grasp and patters ahead to admire the gorgeous brass telescope by the balcony, reaching out, fingertips fluttering just above the surface but never touching, as per Bilbo's suggestion.

“It's polished clean,” Bilbo marvels, “you've kept this place in surprisingly good shape, Mister Lickspittle, considering how reluctant you seem to be to rent it to anybody.”

“Oh, we've rented it many times in the past,” Alfrid confesses, all three of them now standing by the balcony door and gazing out to the sea, the view quite simply breathtaking.

“You have?” Bilbo frowns, ruffling Frodo's hair absentmindedly.

“We have,” the man confirms, and then adds very glumly, clearly exaggerating for more impact “none of the tenants lasted through the night.”

Bilbo has half a mind to burst into laughter, but then Mister Lickspittle does look so very unfortunate.

“You're serious.”

“ _Of course_ I'm serious,” he huffs, “why do you think a place this large and well situated is so cheap?”

“I wondered,” Bilbo snickers, then turns to admire the bedroom once more, “ghosts, you say, hmm?”

_Just the one._

_That_ voice doesn't exactly sound like Mister Lickspittle, but before Bilbo can do anything but register the chilling tingle shooting up his spine, too many things happen at once – behind him, the wind busts the balcony window open, howling and biting with a sudden ferocity. It makes the rafters keen and creak as if the whole building is about to collapse, and before Bilbo can even start wondering how a storm has come so quickly and out of the blue, forth dashes his nephew, and the easily startled Mister Lickspittle at his heels.

“Frodo!” Bilbo calls, but the roar of the wind and the complaining of the house is deafening – his feet carry him forward quite unwittingly, out of the bedroom and onto the staircase, and it must have gotten very dark very fast, because he can barely see his way.

Neither his nephew or the realtor are anywhere to be seen, and he could have sworn that corner wasn't there! Or that door, for that matter... He stumbles down the stairs practically blindly, and it's as if the noise is gaining in volume every step he takes – the sea seems to be right outside, the waves crashing violently against the walls of the house itself, and there must be a whole flock of seagulls overhead, screeching with particular vigor... It must just be Bilbo's hearing deceiving him utterly and completely, but he catches something else in all that noise, something subtler, a melody, the plucking of strings... is that a guitar? A harp? He almost turns right back around, but it's as if some invisible force is quite virtually pushing him out of the house, and he stands on the patch of dried grass in front of the porch before he knows what's what, gasping for breath, blinded by the sun, and feeling slightly dizzy for some reason.

“Frodo!” he exclaims, and the boy turns to him, unperturbed, taking his hand obediently.

“Are you alright?!” Bilbo exhales, and Frodo smiles and shrugs, nothing more.

The heat is almost unbearable now, the warm dry wind tousling his hair, such a stark contrast with the inside of the house. Bilbo looks back at it, more than a little confused, and it looks back very innocently, peaceful and still, not a curtain fluttering.

“Well then,” he mutters to himself, “I could've sworn...”

He notices the realtor out of the corner of his eye then, practically jumping up and down from sheer nerves by the gate all the way down by the road, and waves at him feebly, nudging Frodo to come with.

“I told you!” Mister Lickspittle cries, “ _now_ do you see why the house is unsuited to your needs?!”

“Hmm, yes, well...”

“I really do think it's best we go back to town now, I'll take you to see Westfarthing Lodgings tomorrow, what do you say... Master Baggins?”

“Mmm, yes?” Bilbo gives him his full attention, having lost himself watching the waves wash the beach down below and paint soft, uneven patterns into the sand.

“You heard it too, don't tell me you didn't!” Mister Lickspittle all but pleads with him, “there is... _something_ in that house!”

“It _is_ a very old house, Mister Lickspittle,” Bilbo smiles indulgently, “I'm sure there is quite the number of exciting _somethings_ hiding under that roof.”

“You were _there!_ ” Alfrid exclaims, “you...! The voice, and... the moaning! The Captain...”

“Mister Lickspittle,” Bilbo says firmly, but not without a hint of amusement, “I thought we'd agreed, we live in a modern world. There is no such thing as ghosts. I'm sure that what we heard was just a very old building adjusting to a bit of wind.”

“There _is_ no wind!” the realtor cries so desperately Bilbo almost feels sorry for him – the _nonexistent_ wind also picks up his sensible straw hat right off his head at that very moment and makes him squeal and almost trip over his own feet spinning around to catch it. Convinced now that there's no calming the man down, Bilbo concentrates on Frodo – Frodo, who is getting his second best stockings all muddy sitting on the ground just under the old stone stairs, drawing idle shapes into the dirt with a stick, looking oddly peaceful, considering he was the first one to dash out of the house just then.

“So what do you think?” Bilbo crouches to him, “do you like it here?”

Clear blue eyes glance at him briefly, and the boy shrugs again.

“Were you scared before, with the noises?”

The riot of dark brown curls bobs as Frodo shakes his head.

“Really? You ran before I could catch you,” Bilbo says softly, ignoring whatever property Mister Lickspittle might be suggesting they go see _right now,_ in a very worried, high pitched voice at that.

“I went to wait outside,” the boy murmurs quietly – Bilbo is always surprised by how soft his voice is; he gets to hear it so very little.

“Why? Wait for what?”

“I went to wait outside,” Frodo repeats, with more conviction now, “like he told me to.”

An odd tingle tickles the back of Bilbo's neck, like the feeling one gets when being watched, and the gust of wind tousling his hair is colder now, no longer smelling like the sea, but rather like old stone walls and wooden stairs, and dust that's lain undisturbed for years and years.

“Like _who_ told you to – yes, Mister Lickspittle, we're coming, give us a moment, would you!”

“It will be dusk soon,” the realtor almost pleads, “if we're to finish our rounds at the office in time-”

“I don't think that'll be necessary,” Bilbo interrupts him clearly before his nattering can get out of hand again, and gets up, dusting off his trousers, “I think we'll be liking Oak Cottage well enough.”

“Oh, but Master Baggins, I _implore you_ -”

“One thing you should know about me, Mister Lickspittle, I don't twice enjoy being _implored_ to do anything,” Bilbo accompanies those words with a polite smile, but also no small amount of resolve.

He looks from the anguished man to the house itself, and it's as if it's taunting him – _look away for but a second, and you might miss it._ Miss _what,_ Bilbo isn't entirely sure yet.

A glimmer of light from the master bedroom window catches his eye momentarily – now that he's been there, he knows it's just the lens of the telescope capturing sunlight, but he can't help but squint and... not quite see, but _almost_ imagine, the shift of a curtain and the shadows rearranging so that it looks like, just for a blink of an eye, there's a figure standing there by the balcony door. He remembers the look of piercing eyes, off a painting that felt almost too alive, and hears the echo of a voice that didn't belong to anyone in that room...

He shakes his head, shakes it off, but as he moves to go worry about the worried realtor once more, he sees that Frodo is standing by his side, staring intently the same way. His knees are already muddy, and his hair a messy halo, and his cheeks a healthier rosy pink than Bilbo has seen in a while – he reaches to bump his nose gently with his thumb, and the boy's face scrunches up in a surprised scowl, but then he grins at Bilbo brightly, and that right there is the most exciting part of today's tour yet.

“Do you want to stay here?” Bilbo asks him plainly, and Frodo inclines his head, as if he's ruminating over that particularly hard, before offering one very decisive nod.

“That's decided, then,” Bilbo sighs contentedly.

“What's decided? Nothing is decided!” the ubiquitously annoying Mister Lickspittle trots up to them, though he seems to be reluctant to get anywhere too close to the house, “this is not a good idea, Master Baggins!”

“Now, I'm no expert in these matters,” Bilbo sighs, putting a reassuring hand on Frodo's shoulder, “but I'd say trying _this_ vehemently _not_ to strike a deal might be bad for business, don't you think? I wonder what your superiors at the esteemed Laketown Realtors might think were I to bring it up-”

“Oh, alright, _alright,_ have it your way, if you're _this_ stubborn,” Mister Lickspittle spits, throwing his hands up in the air, “but let it be known – and we will have this _signed_ from you, yes we will – that I, or anyone else at Laketown Realtors, will not be responsible for any-” one baleful glare towards the house, “ _danger_ that may befall you.”

“That's understandable,” Bilbo almost snorts a laugh, “but I think we'll be just fine.”

The look the man casts him then is haunted and puzzled at the same time, as if he's already filed Bilbo as a lost cause, but can't quite understand why he insists on confirming it himself, time and time again.

“You are making a grave mistake,” the realtor tells him, plain and simple and, in Bilbo's amused opinion, very unprofessional indeed.

He never stops smiling, simply looks away from the man and to his nephew, who is still watching the house, that same distant look in his eyes he had when they were inside, listening to something only he can hear.

Behind them, the sea roars, and Bilbo knows nothing about the sea, or the weather by the sea; doesn't even quite know what the future holds if they do decide to stay here. But the air is warm and dry, and smells of salt water and rocks heated up by the sun, and there's nothing but endless blue on the horizon, water and sky melding into one, and he thinks he might be able to look at that forever.

“Oh, I don't know,” he smiles, inhaling deeply and ruffling Frodo's hair, the boy's face upturned and smiling, and a calm unlike anything he's felt in years settles somewhere deep within his chest at the sight, “I think it'll be quite the adventure.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Are you scared? What are you running away from?_

Bilbo wakes with a snort and gazes blearily at the unfamiliar surroundings for a moment, before realizing where he is and rolling over onto his back with a sigh. It's infinitely windier here by the sea, even at the height of summer, and he distinctly remembers lying awake for the longest time last night, staring at the wooden paneling of the walls just like he's doing right now and listening to the rafters creak and complain, and wondering why on earth he wasn't able to just fall asleep, especially after an entire day spent unpacking and making at least some of the areas of the house a bit presentable – there is at least another week of dusting and cleaning ahead of him if he has any hopes of restoring Oak Cottage to its former glory, but that won't be achieved if he has no hopes of catching at least a quick kip every now and then.

Frodo seems to have the exact opposite problem – Bilbo has a difficult time rousing him at all, and he squirms and begs to stay in bed for a while longer, even though the sun has long since climbed up high on the sky. But, it's their first night here, and so Bilbo allows it for once, and besides, he's been on high alert for night terrors ever since the boy came to stay with him, so this is a refreshing change. He simply sets Frodo's clothes out for him on the bed and tells him to get dressed and come down when he's _really_ hungry, which won't take long at all, he knows – the lad might be apathetic still, even despondent at times, but his appetite knows no bounds.

“It's not even September yet!” Bilbo complains to no one in particular, draping his sweater tighter around his shoulders as he makes his way down the stairs, carefully still, “the summer has no business being this cold, honestly.”

A particularly old floorboard wails under his step then, and the sound startles him so much he almost trips over his own feet – he has to check if he hasn't caused any damage, it honestly sounded like he'd stepped right through the stairs there.

“Well, you didn't creak this bad last night, did you?” he scolds them, and the house whines in response, an odd sound he can't quite place, coming from who knows here.

“I should probably have someone take a look at all this, before the roof comes falling on our heads,” Bilbo announces sourly, and almost expects the house to respond to that as well, but all he gets is silence this time.

Still, it's as if the cottage is mocking him, because the second he steps outside, he's shedding his thick sweater almost instinctively, that's how warm the morning air is.

The sea is a deep gunpowder blue today, the sky a bright periwinkle, wind-torn shreds of clouds like fraying ribbons someone has scattered across it, and the air carries the taste of rain, long gone now but promising to come back at some point today still.

_What now?_

“Well, I think we should go visit the village,” Bilbo mumbles, lost in thought, “I should like to know more about it, buy us something to stock the pantry with... Oh, we're also going to have to stop by the post office and tell someone that we're living here now, you know? Mister Lickspittle promised to arrange everything for us, but I have the sneaking suspicion he still half expects us to pack up and leave again tomorrow. And who knows, maybe we can ask around about a school for you, what do you think? Frodo?”

But the doorway where he could have sworn he caught his nephew standing out of the corner of his eye is completely empty, and Bilbo frowns – talking to himself isn't like him at all.

_You **should** leave._

Bilbo whips around to stare into the garden, very tempted to ask an all-encompassing 'Excuse me?!' out loud, but it's just the murmur of of the hedgerow, rose hip bushes and dried overgrown grass ruffled by a gentle breeze – still, he glares suspiciously for a moment, before dismissing it and trailing back inside.

Deeming the cold the house accumulates absolutely _dreadful,_ he goes about opening the windows in the foyer and the narrow one in the kitchen, in an effort to let some of the wonderful warmth in.

“Yes, yes, complain away,” he sighs when the house croaks and moans, the draft airing out the old stale curtains and swirling in a quiet hum in the farthest corners, disturbing god knows what.

The stove refuses to cooperate as well, spiteful old thing, clanging unhappily and sputtering like an irritated cat when he manages to light it at last.

It's going to demand to be fed all day if he wants to get any use out of it, which will prove especially taxing in the winter, but there's no use worrying about that now. It allows him to heat up enough water for a cup of tea for Frodo and him both, but a proper breakfast, much less the pancakes the boy had requested, will have to wait, as there are no eggs _or_ milk at his disposal quite yet, of course. But Frodo accepts the bread with honey just as happily, munching on it thoughtfully, sitting on the beautifully painted bench by the window, feet dangling in the air, as Bilbo makes a more or less silent account of all the dishes the kitchen offers, and maps out all the spots to place his mother's old crockery in once he gets around to it.

They set out bright and early, Frodo modestly excited to take a walk into the town close by – not seeing any harm in it, Bilbo lets him tug him in the direction of the sheep they saw yesterday and that seemed not to have moved an inch since then, disregarding the dusty road and marching straight across the vast field, fresh grass up to their knees at some points, the wind trying stubbornly to steal their hats away.

“It's quite lovely here, don't you think?” Bilbo notes once they've scaled long hill, stopping to catch their breath and looking back over the sea – all that they can see of Oak Cottage now is the faded red of its roof among the greenery doing its very best to swallow it whole, and the shapes of it are yet foreign.

“Well, I suppose it'll take some getting used to, but I think we might enjoy it here,” Bilbo decides, not really expecting an answer – Frodo seems entirely engrossed with the sea, eyes large and distant as he watches the vast expanse of it, and Bilbo watches _him_ for a moment, and wonders, not for the first time and most certainly not for the last, if he's doing the right thing. Saving the boy from an orphanage, or worse yet, the throes of Lobelia and her husband, does still seem like a good decision, but sometimes, just sometimes, Bilbo realizes he knows next to nothing about raising a child – knows how to feed him, and clothe him, and read him a bedtime story, but when it comes to helping him accept the hurt of his parents' passing, he is, he's afraid to admit, entirely clueless.

And now they're both here, by the sea, and who knows where that particular decision of Bilbo's will take them.

“Oi! You're trampling my pastures!”

Bilbo's heart jumps in his throat, and his hand instinctively shoots to Frodo's shoulder as they both turn around, only to see a rather menacing man approaching them.

“E-excuse me?” Bilbo stammers, trying not to get _too_ unnerved about the _beast_ of a dog trotting by the man's side. Frodo steps closer to him, and Bilbo squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, even though he's feeling far from it – the man is frowning at him from underneath a very stern brow, his face weather-beaten and tan, his beard growing wildly seemingly in all directions at once, and oh, have they already managed to upset the natives? What a way to start their first day here.

“You're in the way,” the man announces gruffly, sizing them both up and down, “my sheep will be here any minute now.”

“Your – oh,” Bilbo blabs, “I'm terribly sorry, really I am, it's just that... we didn't notice any fence, we just wanted to take a shortcut to town...”

“I wanted to see the sheep,” Frodo pipes up, much to Bilbo's surprise, and the man's eyes soften as he looks down at him – his dog seems curious, too, enormous black muzzle sniffing far too close to Frodo for Bilbo's liking, until the shepherd calls it back with a sharp word uttered in a language he doesn't understand.

“Nothing much to see about sheep,” he huffs, not unkindly, “they're stupid. But there's sea on one side, and Ursa-” the dog's eyes light up at the mention of his name and he wags his tail, “on the other. We don't need any fences. You're not from around here, otherwise you'd know that.”

“No, no, we're, ah... We just got here yesterday, in fact,” Bilbo smiles nervously, but the man's very warm grin surprises him.

“That explains that, then. I thought you were dressed a bit too well for wanderers. A holiday, then, with your boy?”

“My nephew, and no,” Bilbo chuckles more openly now, “we're renting Oak Cottage, starting yesterday. My name is Bilbo Baggins, and this is Frodo. It's a pleasure to meet our first neighbor, Mister...?”

“Call me Beorn,” the shepherd utters, but his demeanor has changed entirely – he glares at them with an odd suspicion now, then glances at the house behind and below them, shaking his head as if he can't quite believe the news.

“And you've lasted through the night, have you,” he states more than asks, and Bilbo frowns.

“Of course we have,” he huffs, “perfectly fine.”

“Hmm,” Beorn hums thoughtfully, “old boy must be getting lazy.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” the man grumbles, gaze still locked on the house, then, as if snapping out of some deep pondering, more clearly, “nothing. You've lasted through the night, that's nice.”

“You know, you're the second person to suggest it's out of the ordinary,” Bilbo sighs, “why is that?”

The man – Beorn, what an odd name that is – looks at him silently for a moment, the only sounds the omnipresent hiss of the breeze through the grass, and the happy panting of Ursa the dog, who has managed to get familiar enough with Frodo so that the lad isn't afraid of petting him, even though his hand is just the tiniest scratching in between the dog's ears.

“You don't believe all that nonsense about the house being haunted, do you?” Bilbo tries jovially when the silence has started to feel a bit uncomfortable, but if he hoped to improve things, he's miscalculated rather epically – Beorn scowls even more powerfully, almost angrily, glancing to the house in the distance again, but then, as if settling some argument with himself, his face clears, like the proverbial sky after a storm.

“You'll be fine,” he concedes at last, a tad too brightly for Bilbo's tastes, doing nothing at all to quell his curiosity, “now, I've got to go see about my sheep. Did you say you were headed to town? Let me show you the way.”

 

The little town of Dale lies just beyond the cove Oak Cottage is nestled in, a picturesque bundle of buildings, denser by the shore and the harbor, then scattered further and further into the grassy knolls, much like Bilbo's and Frodo's new house – though he suspects Oak Cottage is about the most distant part of the town, probably because a certain someone wished it to be so.

The shepherd bids them farewell once they find his herd grazing nearby, sending his dog darting ahead with one cluck of his tongue, and Bilbo notes the quiet longing Frodo watches the pair of them with as they disappear off into the distance.

It's high time they got him some new friends, and the best way to achieve that will be... well, by meeting people, Bilbo decides, and spurs Frodo on encouragingly, marching into town hand in hand.

Stocking the pantry is number one on the list of important errands – Bilbo hopes to also find a coach that might be able to take them back to the Cottage when the time comes, as the idea of lugging groceries all the way back over the fields on foot doesn't sound particularly appealing.

Fortunately, the town is a small one, and finding its center isn't all too difficult – there's a rather bountiful market in session there on the square, loud and bright, from fishermen selling their hauls from that very morning to farmers offering vegetables, from tailors to potters, and Bilbo orders Frodo to stay close so as not to lose him in the ever-amassing crowd, deciding to explore its wonders later.

For now, he is much more interested in the greengrocers' on the far side of the square, and of the firm belief that folks who feed everyone also tend to know about everything, he resolutely heads there.

The tinkle of a bell welcomes them into a cozy little store, empty now as everyone else is in the market, walls lined with shelves overflowing with groceries, and a plump woman behind the counter.

Her name is Bell Gamgee, and she welcomes them very warmly, though her surprise is palpable when Bilbo confesses which property they're renting. She looks from him to Frodo, currently preoccupied with staring at the jars full of hard candy _just_ out of his reach, and there's a pity in her eyes Bilbo doesn't think he will ever be in the mood for.

“Are you sure that that's the right house for you?” she asks, no doubt meaning to come off nothing but kind, “my cousin's husband works for Laketown Realtors, I'm quite certain they have a number of other lovely places available...”

“I think we're staying put, thank you,” Bilbo declares firmly.

“If you're sure, sir,” she smiles politely, “it's a nice house, it is, but...”

“But?” Bilbo sighs, and then, when she appears a bit distant, with a hint of bitterness “is it the ghost of the old Captain in the attic? I thought he was quite charming.”

Her eyes widen so much Bilbo worries for her heart.

“You've actually – are you saying you saw...?”

“No, we have not seen any _ghosts,_ Missus Gamgee,” Bilbo chuckles, though he feels rather exasperated, more than anything. _That makes three._

“But I'll be sure to let everyone know if we do. Now, the larder is tragically understocked, and I've been hoping you could help with that.”

She does much more than that, waving off Bilbo's worries about imposing with the vigor of a person whose purpose in life is to be helpful to _everybody,_ and perhaps learn some gossip along the way – after Bilbo has ordered a few basic things, she lets those sit in the shop to be delivered later, and promptly closes up for a bit (“Can't compete with the market this time of day anyway.”) and drags Bilbo and Frodo on a tour they didn't ask for, but find helpful anyway – they see the butcher's shop (Bombur the butcher is about the largest man either Bilbo and Frodo have ever seen, and the boy is frightened of him up until the moment he impersonates this or that animal), and the blacksmith, and a countless many others, but most importantly, the school. Bell's husband is its groundskeeper, and truly, it looks as if this town hasn't had a newcomer in ages, decades, what with the welcome they receive.

Granted, they're not the only ones there, as it currently serves as meeting grounds for the town council (a very fancy name for a bunch of men meeting to light their pipes and put their feet up, in Bilbo's opinion), because apparently the nobly titled City Hall is recovering from a fire... Needless to say, very soon Bilbo's head is spinning with all the new information he's not half sure he needs to know right now, and he's only glad he doesn't have to worry about Frodo too much – the Gamgees' boy, a bit younger and much more talkative, decides very quickly to make friends, and Frodo eventually braves leaving Bilbo's side to go explore the school's garden alongside him and a number of other children, an unexpected and relieving turn of events.

“Oh, no no, I never married,” Bilbo fends off about the twentieth slightly nosy question from Missus Gamgee, “it's not that I'm opposed to the idea of settling down, not at all, but, well...”

“You're better off for it, if you ask me,” says Hamfast, Bell's husband, passing her indignant huff with nothing but a chuckle, “don't mind my wife, she is far too curious for her own good. It's very kind of you to have taken the boy in, very kind indeed. The sea air will be good for him.”

“That's what I'm hoping for, yes,” Bilbo sighs.

“And I'm sure he'll be more than welcome here at the school,” Master Gamgee decides, “I'll talk to the principal the minute he comes back to town after the weekend, you see, him and the missus went for a vacation in London a couple of weeks ago...”

And on and on they drone, and there's tea and biscuits to be had, and all in all, it's a very good first day in their new home, Bilbo decides.

He needs only mention hiring a coach to drive them back to the house, for the Gamgees to all but force him into accepting their own, free of charge (“Since you've already spent a fortune at the store anyway, please, don't mention it.”), since apparently the only person in the town with a motor car is the aforementioned school principal, currently on holiday.

And just as the sun has started its downward journey to meet with the surface of the sea in a couple hours' time, Frodo and him are sat in Hamfast's wagon as a lazy pony by the name of Myrtle drags it up the hill to the jagged line of the cliffs in the distance.

Frodo and the perpetually a bit ruddy-cheeked Sam Gamgee have somehow managed to become fast friends when Bilbo wasn't looking, even though his nephew barely talks still – but the Gamgees' boy seems to be perfectly content to carry the conversation all by his lonesome, the two of them currently playing some sort of game involving their thumbs in the back of the wagon, surrounded by bags of potatoes and flour, and other completely necessary goods Bilbo had picked up.

“If you don't mind me asking,” Hamfast hums next to him on the coach-box “what is it that you do, Master Baggins, that has allowed you to come all the way over here all on your lonesome?”

“Well, I'm not all alone,” Bilbo smiles, “and... I used to be in academia, in London, a long time ago.”

“Oh, a scholar!” Master Gamgee seems genuinely interested, “how exciting. Won't you be a bit bored in the countryside, then?”

“Oh, very far from it, I think,” Bilbo chuckles, “I was born and raised in the countryside, only went to the city for my studies, and... well, it's a long story, but when I decided to take Frodo in, I thought a change of scenery was in order once again.”

“You're a published writer, then? Is that where your money is coming from? Because Bell was telling me, you've spent quite a lot of it today, and – oh, but listen to me! I'm worse than her right now, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry.”

“You did no such thing, I don't mind,” Bilbo assures him, “my money comes from my father's side of the family, let's keep it at that. I own some property in the village I was born.”

“Why not go back there, then, if you craved the countryside?” Hamfast asks casually, but then when Bilbo doesn't respond right away, his face twists in a truly apologetic grimace, “oh, _now_ I've pried.”

“Don't worry about it,” Bilbo sighs, “it's a story I don't particularly like repeating, that's all.”

At that moment, the wagon finally rattles up the hill, and the cove and the cottage come into sight, from a different, unknown angle now – Bilbo's chest swells at the beautiful display and the breathtaking sleek surface of the water, reflecting the slowly setting sun in countless brilliant glimmers, and he wonders if he'll be getting used to all this any time soon. Probably not.

“Well, I hope you'll find what you've been looking for here,” Master Gamgee says somewhat grimly, and when Bilbo looks at him, it's to see him glaring at the cottage waiting for them at the end of the road.

“Honestly, what is it about Oak Cottage that puts a damper in everyone's spirits the second I mention it?” Bilbo sighs, “what happened there that has everyone so agitated?”

“Best leave the past in the past, Master Baggins,” Hamfast grumbles glumly.

“What was the Captain like?” Bilbo decides to disregard that completely, “did you know him?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“I understand that. Still, did you? Did he come to the town much?”

“Not much. He was a seaman, after all. Always off on a deployment somewhere. His sister and her little ones...”

“Yes?” Bilbo quirks an eyebrow.

Hamfast only glances at him, his round, honest face veiled with genuine worry.

“As I said, Master Baggins, it's all best left in the past.”

“Hmm. A story for another day, then. Will you at least tell me how he died? The Captain, I mean. Was it old age?”

“Old age...? Oh no, not that, no,” Master Gamgee is now muttering under his breath, “he died quite young still, he...”

He trails off, casting a glance over his shoulder to his son now – fortunately, the boys aren't paying them a lick of attention.

“How _did_ he die?” Bilbo persists, and feels somewhat bad for a moment for pressing the man so – he does look so very uncomfortable even mentioning this topic.

“They say... Well, the way Beorn found him all those years ago...”

“Hold on, the shepherd? With the large black dog? That's who found him?”

“Yes,” Hamfast sighs, “they say it was... well, believe what you will, but apparently it was ruled as... a suicide.”

He all but exhales the last word, taking ridiculous amounts of care for the boys not to hear him, and something tugs at Bilbo's heart – he remembers those piercing eyes, the power of the man's spirit conveyed perfectly well even through a mere painting, and for him to take his own life...

“Why?” he peeps.

“I don't know. Why would anyone do such a thing?” Master Gamgee muses absentmindedly, ordering the pony to a halt right by the broken wooden gate, and hopping off the coach-box without another word, helping both his son and Frodo out of the wagon before Bilbo manages to stop thinking too much and clamber down himself.

“Can I enlist your help to carry these up to the house?” he gestures to the generous haul of groceries, but Hamfast is already balancing a bag of flour on his shoulder, though he seems very reluctant to move beyond the gate.

He does follow Bilbo eventually, and they leave the heavy stuff waiting on the veranda, Hamfast returning for more while Bilbo searches his pockets for the keys.

“Oh drat, is this not the right one...?”

“What's the matter, Master Baggins?” Hamfast asks, and the tension in his voice is palpable even beyond his cheery exterior – he glares at the house with much suspicion, and won't even come onto the veranda.

“This key,” Bilbo complains, twisting it this way or that, “I could have sworn I had the right one, it's supposed to fit...”

All of a sudden, the lock yields and swallows the key, making Bilbo stumble forward a bit – the house whines and complains, and he can hear Master Gamgee's poorly concealed yelp from behind him.

“Oh, it's just the rafters complaining,” Bilbo reassures him, “it's a very old house, after all. Might have to find someone to take a look at everything before the winter. Say, do you know a good carpenter?”

“Hmm?” Hamfast is distracted, watching the children like a hawk as they play by the hedge, “yes... yes, I know someone, I do.”

“Well, that's good then,” Bilbo smiles, letting the door swing open, “would you like to come in for a cup of tea? It's the least I can do for you after you've helped so much today.”

He can practically _see_ the blood drain from poor Master Gamgee's face.

“Oh, no no, that's very kind of you, very kind indeed, but we have to... it's getting late,” he babbles, “and little Sam needs his dinner, and...”

“I see,” Bilbo smiles indulgently, “I suppose convincing people I do _not_ live in a haunted house will be the greatest challenge I'll have to face here, hm?”

As if in agreement, the roof creaks again, a long, weary sigh, and a sudden breeze makes the grass and the bushes of the garden murmur, a quiet hiss that Bilbo finds quite soothing, but that seems to set poor Hamfast terribly on edge.

“It's just that...”

“It's alright, Master Gamgee, I understand,” Bilbo says kindly, “maybe if I manage to survive here for more than one night, I will also manage to make people believe that this cottage isn't all that terrifying, eh? Go, go put your little boy to bed. I think my nephew likes him a great deal, though...”

“Oh, do stop by the school again then, whenever you feel like it,” Hamfast says steadily now that he isn't being forced to enter the terror mansion anymore, “you heard Bell, she has half a mind to move here and make sure you and your boy are well fed, so I'm sure we'll be stopping by soon enough with a pie or a dozen. She always overdoes it with the pies, my Bell.”

“That would be lovely, Master Gamgee, but I wouldn't want to impose, I can bake a pie by myself just as well,” Bilbo chuckles, Hamfast relaxing tenfold now that they're walking downhill back to the wagon and away from the cottage.

“I'm sure you can, Master Baggins, but I'm also sure my wife would be very offended if you didn't accept at least one of hers. Come to think of it, I could send the carpenter your way sometime next week, so that you don't have to make far too many unnecessary trips.”

 _Basic human kindness,_ Bilbo thinks as Frodo and him wave them off, _who would have thought._ They head back up to the house hand in hand, and Bilbo isn't even surprised when the interior is, once again, so much colder than the outside – they just lug all their groceries into the kitchen and the pantry, and then, at long last, it's time for dinner, and a proper one it will be.

 

There's nothing wrong with a bit of distance, Bilbo muses that night, having successfully put Frodo to bed. Or a bit of loneliness. Loneliness, and just the faintest touch of seclusion, can clear one's head perfectly, especially after a lifetime of always working with people, talking to people, arguing with people. He misses it sometimes, misses teaching and researching and writing, but... Oh well. All that is behind him now, isn't it.

_What are you running away from?_

He snaps upright, tearing his eyes away from his book – the master bedroom is perfectly silent, the small lamp on the nightstand the only source of light, a dim, flickering glow. It has started raining at some point, just the quiet susurration of a light summer drizzle on the roof, and he listens to that, listens to the house settle and offer the occasional soft creak, and wonders if _hearing things_ is something he's just going to have to get used to if he wants to stay here.

He is startled by one of the windows opening entirely on its own then, not loudly or violently, just snapping open and letting an unpleasant draft in – only upon sneaking from underneath his duvet is Bilbo reminded of how cold it really is in this blasted house. And the gas heater he's discovered downstairs and dragged all the way up here on his lonesome isn't doing a very good job of heating up _anything_ , either.

He latches the window close once more, and by the time he makes his way out of his room and into the darkened hallway, he's begun to shiver just a bit – he worries again how much it'll take to keep this house warm during the winter, dear god.

He hears the murmur then, distant words he can't quite discern, like children squabbling.

“Frodo?” he frowns, ignoring the shiver dancing up his spine and heading to check in on the boy, “this is no hour to be awake, you scoundrel.”

But a quick peek into his nephew's room reveals him sleeping utterly peacefully, his pale little face calm and devoid of all tension for now–

_It's very late._

He spins around, glaring into the hallway – he's left one lamp burning above the staircase, but that flickers and dies now, and he's left in utter darkness.

“Oh, brilliant, this,” he sighs – he has half a mind to go make himself a hot water bottle anyway, and something tells him that navigating this house in pitch black will become a necessity.

The rain becomes stronger, a loud rapping now, and the floor is cold, cold – it's been years since this house has stored any heat in its walls, and it might take just as long to warm it back up again.

Halfway down the stairs, he steps on the bad one again – has it always been this particular step? Bilbo feels like it was lower this morning – and as it whines, the wind howls in the rafters, and he could swear that he hears it once more, the quiet plucking of strings. He stands still for a moment, clutching onto his cardigan, his heart beating unnaturally hard in his throat, and listens, but it's as if the second he tries to concentrate on it, it's gone, just out of his reach.

“A bit of wind never managed to scare anybody,” he announces out loud, shaking it off and finally making it to the bottom floor – the feeling of being watched is like an unpleasant prickling on his skin, and it takes all his willpower not to look back over his shoulder each step he takes. He might end up seeing something, after all.

Lighting the lamps in the kitchen – _freezing_ – is a task for a greater man than he, quite literally. He assumes the Captain must have been a very tall man, because they are impractically high up on the walls, and Bilbo only manages to light one before giving up and moving on to wrestle with the stove.

The rain pours, and the wind carries the cackle of a seagull, which, of course, can't in fact be _that,_ not in the middle of the night.

“Oh, you find that funny, do you?” Bilbo grumbles, trying to figure out the stove's mechanism, “no wonder nobody likes you, with a wretched sense of humor like that.”

Talking to himself now, amazing.

The stove sputters and resists, but comes to life eventually, and Bilbo promises himself to put more forethought into it next time, and spend a solid afternoon warming it up. The rain has become an incessant downpour now, hissing loudly and whipping the house with unceasing intensity, and the rafters wail so loud Bilbo is worried all that noise might wake Frodo.

As if it's been timed, the sound comes again, a voice or a melody, it's difficult to tell – all Bilbo knows is that it might sound like his nephew at first, but that it's nowhere near a child's voice when one listens closely. It sends an unpleasant shudder tingling up his spine, and he stands still for a moment, hands unwittingly gripping the edge of the counter – was it just him, or did he just hear footsteps?

_What are you running away from?_

A window flies open somewhere in the foyer, the storm blowing in with all its ferocity, and Bilbo jumps.

_Is it the dark?_

The lights give out all at once, and he is very ashamed of the little yelp that escapes him.

"T-that's it then, is it?" he stammers, searching for the matchbox he'd left somewhere nearby, "is that all you can do? I'm not afraid of the dark, I'll have you know."

 _That_ is not insane at all. The house waits silently, save for the flapping of a curtain somewhere. He strikes a match with fingers that are shaking only the teensiest bit, but before he can bring it anywhere near the stove, it comes to life all on its own with a frightening whoosh, flames briefly bursting through the cooker railing, and Bilbo jumps back with a curse, very nearly ending up flat on his bum, if it weren't for the workbench behind him. He hits his hip nastily and muffles a pained cry.

"Really now?!" he exclaims somewhat desperately, "is burning down the house really what you want?!"

If he's really going insane, then he might as well embrace it.

"Come on then," he grunts, readjusting his glasses on his nose, "if you're so adamant on chasing me out, I think it's only polite we get to know each other."

The stove is dead again. The rain hammers on the roof, and the window he still hasn't gone to close is suffering in its hinges. The house waits.

"I'm serious," Bilbo says quietly, fishing out another match, "I know you're here. Don't be a coward and show yourself. _Captain_."

The match strikes, strong and bright in the darkness for one shining moment, before it is blown off with a sudden violent gust of air coming out of nowhere.

_Don't call me that._

"Don't call me that."

It's a strange sensation, like an emptiness in the room he hadn't noticed until it was filled – it takes him excruciatingly long to turn around and look, but somehow, he knows exactly what he'll see before he does. With him in the kitchen, lounging by the door frame like he's always been there, stands a ghost.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo thinks he understands now, all those stories he's heard about someone's heart giving out on them just like that, for no apparent reason – he's very close to experiencing it himself. He turns around to see the figure in the doorway, curses out loud and promptly spins back around so as not to look at him, hoping he might go away.

“Well?”

_That_ voice is,  against all odds and expectations,  _very_ real, deep and rich,  and Bilbo curses himself for needing to look again – the man very much  _is_ his own painting come to life, though the uniform is gone; he wears all black.

“Well what?” Bilbo peeps, his voice coming out strained at best.

“I don't much enjoy being called a coward. I think an apology is in order.”

“Oh dear _god,_ ” Bilbo whines, dragging his hands down his face, blinking up at the ceiling helplessly for a moment, “oh dear, sweet god, I'm going insane.”

“What's the matter?” the voice is, against all of Bilbo's wishes and expectations, still there, “you called, so I answered. Pull yourself together, would you?”

“Pull myself – pull myself _together?_ ” Bilbo exclaims, high-pitched and not a small bit desperate, turning to face him... it, “you're _a ghost!_ You're him, you're the Captain, you're supposed to be dead!”

“Well, that hardly changes the fact that I'm still here,” the ghost quirks an eyebrow, and seems, if anything, just the slightest bit annoyed.

“Ha! Of course,” Bilbo squeaks, a hysterical giggle, and slumps on the nearest stool, “in that case you'll forgive me if I take a moment to get used to you!”

The ghost stares, anticipatory. Bilbo attempts to calm down his breathing, without much hope for success. Tries closing his eyes, shutting them tight, in the hopes that the door frame might be deserted when he opens them again – to no avail. He covers his mouth with his hand, leaning his elbow on the table, and stares back, willing his head to either accept what his eyes are seeing, or finally admit it's been lying to him all this time.

“You're Captain Durin,” he squeaks, muffled by his hand.

The ghost sighs, crossing his arms.

“I thought we'd established that.”

“And you're... I mean, you... died.”

“Some years ago, yes.”

“Right,” Bilbo huffs, “right, yes, of course. You died. But you're still here. You are _haunting_ your own _house._ There's _a ghost_ in my kitchen.”

“It's _my_ kitchen.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but words fail him. He shakes his head with yet another pathetic mewl of sardonic laughter, and rubs his face with his hands, groaning. The ghost remains, and looks, if anything, impatient.

“Why, uh... why do you linger here?” Bilbo summons enough strength to ask a somewhat normal question.

The ghost – man, apparition, Bilbo hasn't yet decided what to call him, inclines his head, as if he can't quite believe what Bilbo is saying.

“This is my home.”

“Yes, but-”

“This is my home,” Captain Durin repeats more intently, “my house. I built it with my own two hands, and I have plans for it yet.”

Come to think of it, Bilbo had expected his voice to sound at least a bit off, distant, ethereal, maybe just as intimidating as the rolling of the waves and the howling of the wind – and it _is_ deep and rich enough, but aside from that, it sounds quite... normal to his ears. As if the Captain is really standing there in the room with him, real and alive – of course, you can't usually see the vague outlines of whatever a person is standing in front of through them, but Bilbo tries his very best not to think about that too much. He stands abruptly and hurries to the stove, to find something to do before he suffers some sort of hysteric episode.

“What... plans?” he asks, busying himself with fiddling with the opening of the hot water bottle, hoping that if he tears his eyes away from the man for a moment, he won't be there when he next looks up.

“That's no business of yours.”

“Well, it is _some_ business of mine, since I'm living here now, too.”

“Not for long,” the Captain says, and a chill creeps up Bilbo's spine – his hands still on the counter, and he stares at them firmly, willing them not to start shaking. He realizes then just how very alone they are out here, Frodo and him. He's stranded them foolishly in the middle of nowhere, and if he screams now, no one will come running because no one will hear. In fact, no one will come by here for days...

He swallows.

“You are awfully confident you'll manage to chase me out,” he declares, proud of his mostly steady voice, “you haven't had any luck yet.”

“There were many others before you,” the ghost reminds him, and it's as if he's standing right behind him, his voice quiet but threatening.

“Yes, I know. And none of them lasted through the night,” Bilbo replies quickly, as talking fast allows for his mind to settle, “and may I remind you that _we_ have been doing just fine so far? You are not getting rid of us that easily. Despite all your shenanigans, Frodo has been sleeping soundly, for the first time since... For the first time in ages, and I won't have you ruin that, do you hear me?!”

He turns to face the ghost abruptly, but gasps when he finds the spot by the door deserted.

“I would never hurt the boy.”

The voice all but whispers in his ear now, and Bilbo starts and yelps, almost jumping out of his skin – Captain Durin is standing right next to him now, those piercing, unnerving blue eyes glaring down at him, as if he's offended that Bilbo would even insinuate something like that.

“B-but you have no problem scaring the living daylights out of him?” Bilbo stutters, pointing an accusatory – albeit a slightly shaky – finger at him, to which the man responds with a cocked eyebrow.

“I have never made my presence known to him.”

Bilbo blinks mutely for a moment.

“You mean...”

“I've never scared him. It's _your_ girlish screams I like the best.”

“ _My_ girlish – _alright_ , you,” Bilbo sputters and flushes, “is all of this just a great joke to you?! I'm going to be living here, whether you like it or not! Frodo likes it here, and so we are staying put, and I won't let some – some obstinate _sprite_ put an end to that, do you understand?!”

“Did you just call me a _sprite?_ ” the Captain repeats the word slowly, as if it's unknown to him, and he sounds, if anything, slightly amused.

“Well, that's what you are, aren't you? A bothersome poltergeist.”

“I am _the owner_ of this house still!” the ghost booms, a little bit of the roar of the sea in his voice all of a sudden, “in solid form or not, I am _still here,_ and you'd do well to pay me more respect!”

Bilbo finds he's suddenly a little weak in the knees, and he clutches onto the edge of the counter, to make his hands stop shaking, _and_ keep himself upright. But that doesn't mean this isn't just infuriating.

“Well, solid or not, your attitude sure is _dreadful!_ ” he retorts, “respect has to be earned! It's not something you can _frighten_ people into giving you!”

“And I suppose you know all about that, don't you?” the Captain snarls, “yes, such a commanding figure you cut.”

“Insulted by a ghost,” Bilbo remarks dryly, “I suppose there really is a first for everything.”

For a short moment, silence reigns. The ghost of Captain Durin glares, his expression a barely contained raging storm, not unlike the one outside, but it's like Bilbo has crossed some sort of threshold into insanity when he wasn't looking – he's barely bothered now. Perhaps that's what arguing with an ethereal apparition does to a person.

“I have many means of making you leave,” the Captain announces, falling a bit short of menacing, though.

“Oh please,” Bilbo scoffs, “you've played your hand. Now that I know you're really here, you can't exactly _scare me_ into leaving anymore.”

The ghost opens his mouth to disagree, only to shut it somewhat dumbly when he realizes Bilbo is right.

“Didn't think of that, did you?” Bilbo sighs, the Captain's unnerving glare following him around the kitchen as he fetches the heavy kettle and fills it with water, “honestly. You say you have plans for the house, but if all you can do is cause a bit of mischief with the gas and make the stairs creak, you just as soon risk destroying it.”

This helps – keeping his hands busy, and muttering nonsense, always good. If it weren't for the dark blur hovering at the edge of his vision, Bilbo could almost pretend he's alone.

“You're a very stubborn man,” the ghost decides, and sounds, as much as the echo of someone long gone can sound, very grouchy.

“I've been called that before, yes,” Bilbo smiles, smiling at the matchbox in his hands, “now, will you let me light this damn thing this time?”

“Hmph,” is the Captain's grumpy response, and the stove yields at long last.

“Now,” Bilbo announces, satisfied and feeling much steadier now that the little things are going his way, “I think we need to make a couple of things clear before we continue-”

“You don't get to _make demands_ of me,” the ghost snarls, and Bilbo has to give this to him at least – he can send creeping chills shooting up his spine with his voice alone.

“Oh _please,_ ” Bilbo groans, proud of _his_ voice only wavering a little bit, “let's act like civilized people, shall we? I will be staying here, whether you like it or not. I didn't sign up for _shared living_ with the deceased owner of _any_ of the houses I spent weeks looking at, but there you have it. I imagine it might be a bit of relief for you as well, roaming about instead of... whatever it is you normally do. Staying out of sight and pretend you're the wind howling in the rafters.”

To his mild surprise, the ghost laughs shortly, not exactly a happy sound, but not unpleasant either. He stands there all casual-like, his face brooding by default, and Bilbo feels scrutinized under his gaze, but does his best to withstand it well.

“I'll let you stay,” the Captain decides at last, and when Bilbo opens his mouth, he raises his hand abruptly to keep him quiet, “ _for now._ If you stay away from the attic.”

“And in turn, you'll stay away from Frodo?” Bilbo counters, and maybe it's just a trick of light, but he sees a sudden, distant sadness flashing in the ghost's eyes – it's gone before he can notice it properly, though.

“I will. If you move my painting to the master bedroom, I'll keep to it.”

“The m- but where will _I_ stay, if you're loitering about in there?”

A beat.

“The master bedroom, of course.”

“Oh, you...!” Bilbo begins to complain, but can't really find the right words.

“Those are my terms,” the Captain smirks, as if taunting Bilbo to disagree, “do you accept them?”

Bilbo sighs. The kettle begins to hiss promisingly. Outside, the rain calms down into a quiet pitter-patter.

“Fine,” he concedes at last, turning to tend to the stove.

_Alright,_ the ghost whispers, and Bilbo is alone once more, and it's an empty space that he can  _feel_ on his skin – it's as if someone's turned down the heat in the kitchen, he's suddenly freezing again.

“And the lights, if you please?” he says loudly, and they flicker back to life obediently.

“That's more like it,” he huffs, and the house sighs, exasperated.

It's a very odd feeling,  _knowing_ that there really  _is_ someone in the shadows he feels swirling closer around him as he makes his way out of the kitchen, carefully switching off lamp after lamp. There is even a difference between the howling of the  _actual_ wind, and the one of the house trying to chase him away – it's subtle, but when one listens, it's very easy to discern. But most importantly, even in the dark, even in the middle of the spacious foyer, the house feels... less empty. Smaller.

To his right, the door to the living room opens with a creak, a dim glow somehow managing to illuminate the painting on the wall. The house waits.

“What, right _now?_ ” Bilbo grumbles, “can't it wait until the morning?”

The door whimpers, opening a bit further.

“Oh, alright, you,” Bilbo sighs, marching in to fetch the portrait, “vanity is _not_ a virtue, you know.”

The staccato of the rain sounds like distant laughter for a moment.

Bilbo shakes his head and balances the painting under his arm – it's surprisingly light for its size. Carrying it upstairs is a pain and a half, especially alongside the heavy hot water bottle, but the stairs are quiet this time, and even the door to the master bedroom is very politely half ajar, so that Bilbo only needs nudge it open.

“Now, where should I put you?” he mumbles, “any suggestions?”

Unhelpfully, the house and its owner remain quiet.

“Right, well,” Bilbo grunts, setting his load on the ottoman by the bookshelves, “I'll just... lean it here for the time being, and hang it properly tomorrow. That about acceptable?”

More silence, which, he figures, might as well be a good sign.

“Alright then. I'll go get some rest now, if it's all the same to you.”

The painting stares – Bilbo's hands on the buttons of his thick knitted cardigan slowly come to a halt.

“You're _leering,_ ” he accuses it.

Steam escapes from the hot water bottle, and it sounds like an indignant scoff.

“Yes, well, I'm not taking any chances,” Bilbo decides, grabbing the nearest quilt and draping it over the painting unceremoniously.

“Oh, would you give it a rest, it's just for today!” he scolds the wind suddenly leaning too powerfully into the windows, the wood and metal frames keening loudly.

It quietens down, and Bilbo listens for a while, before sighing and slipping out of his protective layers, turning his back to the portrait, even covered.

“I just don't half enjoy the idea of you... watching all the time.”

_But I **have** been watching all this time._

“That's not helpful!” Bilbo exclaims, and slips quickly under the covers.

_Don't flatter yourself._

Bilbo has an offended reply all ready to go, but he decides against it in the end – burrows deep into the heavy duvet, and hopes that the dark hides his blush.

 

The morning greets them with the smell of rain still in the air, puddles pooling on the bumpy road up to to house, the sea darker now, having swallowed all that additional water overnight – Bilbo tries and fails to keep Frodo inside, keep him from soaking his shoes, but it is a fool's errand. The boy is restless, having slept soundly yet again, and Bilbo can hardly protest his enthusiasm. He barely manages to feed him breakfast, the highly anticipated pancakes, before he's itching to go and see the sea from up close, something that they've agreed they would do at the first possible occasion.

It is difficult to discern if last night was just a particularly odd dream – there's nothing at all in the house to indicate that Bilbo really _had_ met its former owner, except of course for the painting in the bedroom. Bilbo uncovers it only very reluctantly before leaving, Frodo peeking from behind him, as if they're both equally worried that it might start talking to them, but Oak Cottage is decidedly silent today, not protesting in the slightest when they leave for their walk.

The road to the beach is a neat but rocky one, and they don't meet a living soul except for the seagulls accompanying them high up overhead. Bilbo lets Frodo explore, only cautioning him to be careful, and breathes the brine-scented air in deep, thirsty gulps, soon loosening his ascot and unbuttoning his overcoat – as the sun climbs higher and higher on the clear sky, it gets progressively warmer, and Bilbo is reminded that it really _is_ summer, quick overnight storms be damned.

He walks the beach slowly, far enough from the waves caressing the shore, and instructing Frodo to do the same, he watches him run here and there, attempting to search for seashells in the sand – he figures anything that gets the boy at least a little bit excited is worth carrying the entire beach home with them in their shoes.

They pass the remnants of an old pier, the poles polished dark by the water, some of them almost fully submerged now, only stubs left, most of them leaning all crooked – it is by one of those that Frodo stops, a couple dozen steps ahead of Bilbo, one small finger tracing something on it with a strange care.

“What did you find there?” Bilbo hurries to see, sensible shoes burying inconveniently deep into the sand.

Frodo's fingertips are ghosting over a carving in one of the poles, the wood weathered and smoothed by its long battle with the elements, wind and sand and water in equal measures, giving the carved letters a rugged finish.

“F and K Durin,” Bilbo reads out loud, “oh, relatives of our Captain, do you think, Frodo?”

The boy shrugs with a small smile, and continues tracing the jagged carved lines thoughtfully, as if he's imagining he's writing the letters himself.

Bilbo adjusts his hat absentmindedly, and gazes back at the house towering over the beach now, the angles of it somehow appearing more forlorn, hostile from down below. Suddenly its walls aren't a nice, washed out white, but rather an unpleasant shade of bluish grey, no doubt just shadows playing tricks on him... The dreadful monkey puzzle tree sways its misshapen branches like crooked hands reaching out greedily, and Bilbo promises himself to inquire with someone, anyone in the town about felling it as soon as possible.

He sees him then, the gleam and glitter of the telescope lens and the figure standing by it, just another shadow if one doesn't look for it, but somehow, Bilbo knows – he knows, and it doesn't frighten him, or confuse him in the slightest, he realizes.

Maybe _that_ thought _should_ confuse him.

He raises his hand nonetheless, in a greeting that might for all intents and purposes be a completely silly thing to do, but they are alone, and Frodo won't ask unnecessary questions anyway... The house looms, and the sunlight catches in the windowpanes up in the second floor, a curtain swaying in a gentle breeze that possibly can't be there because Bilbo had taken extra care to close _all_ the windows, but that's it.

A tug at his overcoat, and Frodo is raising up his first find, cradled in damp and sand-covered palms, and Bilbo smiles and praises him greatly, and decides to concentrate on the things that are _actually_ real.

In their largely aimless wandering, they walk the length of the cove, discovering a path winding up the cliffs and beyond, yet another way to Dale that lays just beyond said cliffs – a much more frequented beach spreads from there all the way to town, people walking idly both there and underneath the shade of the alley of windswept pine trees close by, children with their parents, and couples, and the occasional lone walker, the squabble of seagulls and the distant barking of dogs only magnifying the strange feeling of stepping into a whole another world – the cove Oak Cottage is nestled in seems its own little corner that no one is allowed to step in, and it's as if everyone from Dale knows it, avoiding coming near the cliffs, not because they have any particular reason to, but just because that's how it's always been.

Even the sea seems a darker hue, and maybe that's to be explained perfectly fine, but as it is, standing atop the cliffs and looking back and forth, they're like two paintings from two entirely different artists – Dale with its cheerfully bright red rooftops, and townsfolk crowding by the perfect golden beach, breeze ruffling the surface of the water like feathers, snow-white caps like whipped cream someone' sprayed each wave with; and Oak Cottage, the only point of brightness in its own little valley, circled and cut off from the rest of the world, tall drying grass behind it, jagged rock like uneven shards of glass scattered into the cold dark water.

Bilbo can't really say which he likes better, to be honest.

They will need to make another visit to Dale eventually, to see about that carpenter Hamfast Gamgee had mentioned, and school starts in a little over a week, so Frodo will have to be enrolled in officially, but for now, hunger summons them back to the house, though it's slow going – the boy is like a curious puppy catching the scent of something very appealing, running here and there, from tufts of grass to piles of driftwood, from sun-bleached rocks to persistent little bushes, crouching down time and time again to pick up whatever sparks his interest – Bilbo lets him, even carries a couple of his claims for him, oddly shaped pebbles and bits of shells, and crooked twigs sanded off into smoothness that's almost unnatural. He figures the house is large enough to store the entirety of this cove in little bits and pieces if need be, and though he doesn't utter a word still, Frodo appears more lively than Bilbo remembers seeing him since before his parents perished.

That is magnified still when they do finally climb the hill up to the cottage, and find a familiar huge black dog sniffing about the front porch, and the shepherd preoccupied with testing the swing of the broken little gate by the road.

“Well, hello there,” Bilbo greets him a bit uncertainly, Frodo already skittering off to greet the dog, utterly disregarding the fact that it's about as tall as he is, and infinitely stronger.

“Afternoon,” Beorn hums, “thought I'd check in on you, see how you've survived the storm last night.”

“Oh, that? Almost didn't notice there was any,” Bilbo titters, shooting a glance up, but the windows of the master bedroom are just that this time around, no pesky _sprites_ eavesdropping. Well, at least not visibly.

“'Was only a weak one,” the shepherd announces, marching up to the house with a purpose only he knows, Bilbo barely keeping up, “they'll get worse as fall comes.”

“Right, well, I suppose that's true. I was considering having the back porch looked at, I think it's leaking a bit, but it's a sturdy old house, I... excuse me, was there anything you needed?”

Beorn glares at the house with something akin to distant anger, before tearing his eyes away from it and looking with almost the same intensity at Bilbo.

“Just walked by, thought I'd see how you were faring here all by yourselves,” he says surprisingly kindly, though.

“That's very thoughtful of you,” Bilbo smiles, keeping one eye on Frodo, wrestling Ursa the dog for a stick now, “say, would you like to come in? It's high time for tea.”

The man measures him as if he's trying to figure him out right where he stands, and it's a slightly unnerving experience – he cuts a very menacing figure, Bilbo decides, but his prerogative is to be polite to anyone despite their appearance, if they deserve it of course.

“Can't stay,” Beorn huffs at last, gesturing vaguely to the vast fields beyond the house, “sheep are waiting.”

“Ah, of course, the sheep,” Bilbo grins, “I understand. Some other time, then.”

“Hmm,” Beorn muses, and makes to march away, but something occurs to Bilbo then.

“E-excuse me just a minute,” he flails to stop him, “just one question, and I do so hope it's not an inappropriate one...”

“Yes?”

Bilbo glances from him to Frodo, whose concentration is however entirely spent on not toppling over while fending off the dog's very powerful enthusiasm when it comes to tugging the stick out of his little hands.

“Well,” he starts out reluctantly, “about the former owner of the house... Captain Durin that is...”

The shepherd's expression changes into something much less approachable, almost too intimidating for Bilbo to continue, but he prevails anyway.

“From what I understand, you were the one who... Not that I have been prying or anything, no such thing, it's just that it came up yesterday when the lovely Master Gamgee gave us a ride back from the town, do you know him?”

“Of course I know him,” Beorn nods, but doesn't sound particularly happy about it, “what about the Captain then?”

“Well, see, Master Hamfast told me that you were the one who... found him. Back then, after he... you see?”

Well then. It's only been a handful of years away from the academia, and yet Bilbo is already beginning to lose all eloquence.

“I did,” the shepherd frowns, “but you don't want to know about all that. Grim business.”

“Yes, yes, of course, no doubt, but is it really true, that he... you know, took his own life?”

Beorn sighs deeply, and Bilbo feels momentarily ashamed for his ardent curiosity, but then it's always been one of his least controllable qualities.

“I wouldn't know,” Beorn replies at last, reluctantly and firmly, “that's what they say.”

“But why would he do such a thing?” Bilbo wonders, keeping his back turned to the house, as if it'll prevent its owner from eavesdropping anyway, “you know, did he... have his reasons?”

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who only moved in two nights ago,” Beorn points out, though not entirely unkindly, and Bilbo shrugs with an apologetic smile.

“It's just that, me and Frodo were wandering on the beach just now, and saw the initials F and K Durin carved into an old pole, and it got me thinking...”

The speed with which the old man's face twists into something miles away from even a little bit approachable, and infinitely sadder, only to erase all hint of emotion very quickly after that, is astonishing, and Bilbo couldn't see past it even if he tried.

“Not a nice story,” is the only thing Beorn says to him, and then proceeds to call his dog to him, and together, they march off and up the road away from the house before Bilbo can realize what's what, the shepherd only raising his hand in vague acknowledgment when he calls his goodbyes after him.

 

Befuddled, Bilbo ushers Frodo inside, and goes about making the aforementioned lunch – he's not going to make the mistake of talking to a ghost that _might not even be there_ in front of his nephew, but he's itching to learn more, find out the truth about whatever happened to the Captain all those years ago.

_Two nights ago,_ he reminds himself,  _you've moved in two nights ago, Bilbo Baggins._ He wonders if he'll end up  _properly_ off his rocker, if they stay here long.

“They called me insane, too, you know.”

Or perhaps he'll burn himself on the stove so epically one day that he'll end up burning the entire house to the ground – a much less appealing ending.

Captain Durin stands in his favorite spot by the door to the kitchen, seemingly more interested in looking very judgmental about Bilbo's baking, than ashamed of the fact that he's managed to scare the life out of him,  _again._

“They – who did?” Bilbo says, a tad more high-pitched than he'd fancy, “and could you _please_ announce yourself before you appear out of nowhere like that – and _hey,_ you promised to only keep to the master bedroom! Frodo-”

“Is very interested in laying out his brand new collection of seashells on the back porch for the sun to dry them,” the Captain finishes smoothly for him, “I will not scare him, that much I did promise, but I'll move about my house as I see fit.”

“Hmph,” is Bilbo's dignified response, turning away to bury his hands in his dough once more – he suffers a strange sense of vertigo just looking at the man – ghost – as if his thoughts have decided to scatter and run away from him, leaving him clueless and slightly disoriented. Alas, that's the feeling one gets when faced with one's reality being successfully turned upside down, he thinks. At least baking is as calming as ever.

“You wanted to know about how I died,” the Captain notes, sounding awfully casual about it – a shudder dances up Bilbo's spine, and he does look at him after all, only to be faced with the calmest demeanor one can possibly adopt when discussing one's passing.

“Oh, um, well, I suppose I got a bit curious...”

“Curiosity is not a virtue either, you know.”

“Oh, I beg to differ! Curiosity is the mother of invention, after all!”

“Is that what they told you in your _academia?_ ” The Captain scoffs.

“How did you-?”

“I can eavesdrop whenever I wish,” is the ghost's infuriatingly enigmatic answer – Bilbo doesn't even remember saying anything about his previous career out loud at any point in the past two days, except maybe to Master Gamgee, but... Anyway, that's beside the point now.

“And you accuse _me_ of too much curiosity,” he jabs a finger at the Captain, clouds of flour rising into the air like silver dust.

“I do. But to satisfy mine, what is it that they say about me in the town these days? That I took my own life?” he adds the last sentence after Bilbo doesn't answer right away, and when he shrugs and nods, the Captain groans, visibly exasperated, peeling himself off the door frame and marching across the kitchen, “damn tattletales!”

“So you... didn't?” Bilbo wonders, brushing his hair away from his forehead and smearing half-finished pie dough across it in the process.

“Of course not!” the ghost pierces him with a glare, indignant and irritated that anyone would even instigate such ludicrous untruths, “why would I do such a thing? It was that blasted gas heater! I left it on in the bedroom and sat down for a read in my armchair and fell asleep... But I left the window open! I always leave the window open, anyone who knows me would tell you that! The wind must have closed it, I don't know.”

“Oh,” Bilbo peeps, remembering the latch clicking open last night, the window opening with a soft squeak out of nowhere, the gas heater foolishly left on even after he'd climbed into bed... He shudders.

“Did you...?”

“I wanted to avoid another incident, yes,” the Captain answers even before Bilbo can pose his question properly – it's like he knows exactly what he's thinking, and Bilbo decides to pay it as little attention as possible, for the sake of his own peace of mind, really.

“So you... didn't,” he declares, planting both feet on the ground and both hands in the bowl, sensible, grounding things, “take your own life, that is.”

“I didn't.”

“Well, that's... good. I'm glad.”

“You're _glad?_ ” the ghost repeats, as if he's all but unfamiliar with the word, and maybe it's just Bilbo, but the temperature in the kitchen seems to drop just a little bit.

“Well, you know, I'm... you know,” he babbles, not daring to look behind him where he knows the Captain stands, some sensible part of him still clinging to the idea that if he refuses to look at him, he might turn out to be nothing but a mirage, a creation of his overactive imagination, “I didn't take you for the... the type. I suppose.”

“You don't know anything about my _type,_ ” the Captain points out, stepping closer (how Bilbo knows that when there are no footsteps to be heard, he'll never know); but he sounds more amused than anything else.

“And you don't know anything about _me,_ so how about we just stop presuming things about one another altogether?” Bilbo somehow manages to offer a sharp enough response – he hears a soft gasp that might also be a soft chuckle, and the kitchen is silent for the longest time, up to the point that he ponders whether the ghost has left again.

“I have a question if you'll _graciously_ allow it-” he speaks up, though, when Bilbo least expects him to, but before he can finish asking it, Bilbo hears Frodo's footsteps fast approaching, and before he can think about it twice, Captain Durin quite virtually disappears right before his very eyes, like steam leaking from a pot and dissipating into nothing, keeping his promise.

_You have a visitor,_ is the last thing he mentions to Bilbo, though it is nothing but a whisper of dust swirling in the corners anymore, and Frodo soon confirms that, though not in so many words.

Leaving his half-finished pie behind, Bilbo lets the boy lead the way, and together, they discover a familiar squirmy figure at their doorstep.

“Mister Lickspittle,” Bilbo grins, only about half actual warmth “what a lovely surprise.”

“Yes, yes, afternoon,” the realtor greets them a bit jumpily, as if he's on high alert for the house swallowing him whole at any given moment, “I just came over to inform you that the papers have all gone through, your down payment has been accepted... Oak Cottage is now officially rented. Congratulations, I suppose.”

“Hah, wonderful,” Bilbo chuckles, “we've been settling in quite nicely, haven't we, Frodo? How about you, would you like to have tea with us? Everyone seems so awfully reluctant, I can't imagine why...”

“Oh, no no, I actually, I really have to get going, I'm afraid,” Mister Lickspittle is quick to deny the offer, “more business to attend to, that sort of thing. You know how it goes.”

“I do know how it goes, yes,” Bilbo smiles, “some other time, then.”

“Yes, hmm...” the realtor agrees absentmindedly, looking up with a somewhat blank expression, as if he's not entirely sure his eyes haven't been tricking him – Bilbo almost scolds the _invisible_ part of this conversation to behave, but stops himself in time.

“Is there anything more you needed?” he asks instead, “are you sure a nice cup of tea wouldn't do you good?”

“No, no, it's not that, it's just that... Is everything in order? Around the house, I mean?”

“Well, why wouldn't there be?” Bilbo replies perfectly innocently, “do you mean the storm last night? We survived that without a hitch, Frodo slept soundly all the way through it in fact. I might have to commission someone from town to look at that roof before the winter comes, but other than that...”

“Right,” Mister Lickspittle mumbles, still watching, glaring somewhere vaguely off beyond Bilbo, “so no trouble at all from the house, then. That's good. No...”

“Oh... oh, Mister Lickspittle, please,” Bilbo giggles, playing the part of not understanding at first and then waving his hand at it quite perfectly, in his own opinion, “I thought we'd agreed. We live in a modern world.”

“Yes, right, of course,” the man mutters, then adds with an almost unnatural determination, as if to convince himself if not anyone else, “no such thing as ghosts.”

“Don't I know it,” Bilbo smiles brightly.

Behind them, a sudden wafting breeze makes the grass and the leaves of the bushes around the house flutter and whisper in what might as well be quiet laughter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we meet Thorin at long last! You know, I really did start writing this with the idea of something moody and spooky in mind, but these two just end up bickering in any AU I write, all atmospheric descriptions out the window in an instant :D I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless!


	4. Chapter 4

Summer concludes before anyone has enough time to even notice – Bilbo doesn't know if it happens swifter by the sea in general, but azure skies are replaced by caravans of heavy, steel-grey clouds more often, hanging dangerously low and making their way slowly overhead, threatening to douse everyone and everything in a quick and relentless downpour. The winds are stronger, more persistent, and though the weather is quite warm still, it becomes fickle at best – but all of that doesn't really matter much to them, because the end of summer and the coming of autumn means Frodo finally gets to go to school.

Bilbo is there with him the first day, clutching his hand and encouraging him, the boy's large eyes equal parts worried and excited as they near the school building in Dale's center, and meet more children of all ages, on their way there as well with their parents or in groups with their friends, loud and cheerful. It is not a large school by any means, but Bell Gamgee calls it _reliable,_ and together they watch her son and Bilbo's nephew scuttle off into the building side by side.

That first day, Bilbo stays in town until the lessons conclude, because he can't bear the thought of making Frodo go back that long way home all by his lonesome. Fortunately, he has some groceries to stock up on, and a small number of letters to send, and besides, Missus Gamgee appears more than inclined to drag him into her shop with her and regale him with quite the tirade of idle townsfolk gossip that Bilbo doesn't particularly care for, but pretends to do so out of politeness, of course.

But perhaps most importantly of all, he's here to commission the carpenter Master Hamfast had suggested, and Frodo and him both end up hitching a ride with the man back home later that afternoon – his name is Bofur, and he is about the most cheerful person Bilbo has ever had the pleasure of listening to, doing enough talking for all of them.

“Haunted?” he laughs heartily when Bilbo brings it up, testing the waters for his propensity for superstition, “aye, I wouldn't be surprised if the old bugger decided to stick around. Have _you_ seen anything odd, then?”

“Have I – no, no, of course not,” Bilbo titters, “it's a perfectly fine house, no... No _ghosts_ anywhere. I wouldn't be surprised if the roof creaking in the night would give someone that idea, but that's about it, really.”

“And we'll have that fixed in no time,” Bofur grins, “old roofs like these just need a bit of adjusting here and there, shift the weight this way or that and you've got yourself another century of life in it...”

All in all, he's pleasant to listen to, and is very refreshingly unafraid to approach the house, and _definitely_ excited to stay for tea and eat more than his fair share of Bilbo's poppy-seed cakes, a fact that is swiftly forgotten when he enthusiastically goes about his designated business, doing things to the rafters that Bilbo couldn't hope to understand even if he tried – he just keeps Frodo out of the way, and utters a terse, quiet 'Stay out of this, it's for your own good!' when the house begins complaining a bit too much.

“Well, you've got yourself a whiny one, I can hear that,” Bofur chuckles, “but say, unless you want me to scale the house like a mountain, I'm going to have to need access to that attic of yours.”

“Oh, right, that – that might be a bit of an issue,” Bilbo stammers, and can _feel_ the walls glaring.

“How so?” the carpenter quirks an eyebrow.

“I, uh – you see, the thing is... I was never given a key, actually. I don't even think the realtors have it, apparently it's always been somewhat difficult to get in there, and from what I understand it never was of any particular appeal.”

“That's a bit odd,” Bofur frowns, “it's just a frail old door, isn't it...”

He grabs at the handle resolutely and pulls, only to yelp in a nasty shock and stumble backwards, shaking his hand as if it's been... burned?

“It's hot!” he exclaims, surprised.

“Honestly?” Bilbo groans, and it's only about half meant for the carpenter himself – he reminds himself to act accordingly then, faced with his obvious confusion: “I'm dreadfully sorry, I have no idea how that happened. Are you alright?”

“I'm – well, yes, but there could be something dangerous in there! I really should take a look-”

“No, no, that won't be necessary, sir, I don't mind if you decide to look at the roof from the outside,” Bilbo hastens to take his mind off it, “but you should probably get on that, before it starts raining.”

Befuddled, the carpenter clutches his hand and keeps shooting suspicious looks at the attic door as Bilbo carefully steers him away – once he's gone to get more of his equipment and out of sight, Bilbo sighs and slaps the wooden railing of the front porch as if that will get across his point.

“You are impossible,” he sifts through his teeth and a smile that he sends Frodo alongside a wave of his hand as the boy is currently quite engrossed with his brand new notebook and the very first of his homework, sitting in the grass nearby.

“ _You_ are the one making all these changes I don't half enjoy.”

Hearing the ghost's voice is always a shock that Bilbo doesn't think he will be getting used to any time soon.

“Do you _mind?_ ” he squeaks, the Captain coming to stand next to him on the porch, “Frodo is _right there!_ ”

“He can't see me unless I want him to,” the ghost says simply, “and we had a deal about the attic.”

“Yes, you made _that_ perfectly clear when you tried to _scorch_ my carpenter – the poor man is just trying to do his job.”

“Not in _my_ attic he's not.”

“What even _is_ in that attic, anyway?” Bilbo sighs, clasping his hands behind his back, trying his best to appear as if he is _not,_ in fact, talking to a man long dead standing next to him.

“None of your business,” the Captain uses one of his catchphrases, apparently.

“Fine, have it your way,” Bilbo grumbles, “but just take into consideration the fact that whatever precious treasures you're storing in there, might not fare very well in the winter unless the roof gets fixed.”

To that, the ghost says nothing, and when Bilbo next dares glance next to him, he stands on the front porch alone, and the carpenter is swift approaching, so it's best to smile politely and not think about arguments with dead people.

 

Bofur makes his measurements, and sketches his assumptions about the roof, all sorts of things Bilbo leaves to his expertise, rather than ask silly questions, and it's as if bringing someone from the outside into this little nook of the beach convinces the rest of the town that there's nothing to be afraid of – before long, Bilbo is visited by Missus Gamgee herself, who comes bearing the pies Bilbo had made her swear _not_ to bake, alongside her son, and while he spends his time playing with Frodo in the garden, she invites herself in to inspect the beautiful (albeit still slightly dusty, despite Bilbo's best efforts) interior with the experienced eye of someone who could most probably weave gossip out of the strange arrangement of the chairs in the dining room, if need be.

Bilbo lets her, mostly because he has nothing to hide – or, more accurately put, he has a very obstinate apparition with a fondness for frightening the daylights out of him by appearing behind his back when he's in the middle of cooking supper to hide, but he hopes that letting Bell Gamgee roam the ground floor and touch everything with half greed, half reverence, and then tell all her faithful friends in town about it, will dispel the prevalent conviction that the house is _in the least_ haunted.

To that effect, he lets her make him promise to throw a garden party the second the weather is the teensiest bit agreeable next year, to which Bilbo agrees readily despite the apparition of Captain Durin prowling behind him and hissing _'Never going to happen!'_.

Another one of the things he deems are _never going to happen_ is finding people to fell the dreadful monkey puzzle tree out front – that proves easier than Bilbo could have ever hoped for, as Master Gamgee knows that Bofur knows someone, and that someone turns out to be the carpenter's Uncle, so before Bilbo can really make any decisions about it, _or_ bake even remotely enough for such a gathering, he's hosting Bofur, his Uncle Bifur and his workers, and Master Gamgee himself, who's taken it upon himself that very day to give Frodo a ride home on his wagon, delivering some of the groceries Bilbo had ordered...

All in all, time flies here, and Bilbo is more than happy to have found a peaceful place where he doesn't have to hear the voice of another for hours on end, but he supposes there is nothing wrong with _some_ company every now and then, especially if it makes Frodo so genuinely happy.

“I brought that from Spain, you know.”

Others have their own ideas, of course, and startling him so much that he almost trips down the stairs to _join_ a certain someone in the realm of the dead is apparently a part of that.

“Must you?!” he exclaims, steadying himself on the railing as the Captain glares up at him, his face reading _flatly unimpressed with your agility._

“Sorry,” he shrugs.

“You _can't_ keep appearing out of nowhere like this! Announce yourself somehow, before you just... _pop_ out of thin air next time, would you?!”

“Would you like me to wear a collar with a bell on it, perhaps?” Captain Durin inclines his head, his taunting not even concealed, “like a cow?”

“That would be _fantastic_ ,” Bilbo huffs, and brushes past him (only hoping he doesn't, in fact, brush _through_ him) without much consideration, to see how the workers outside are doing – the tree had been felled in the morning, and is now being sawed into small enough chunks so that they can be transported away.

Bilbo does admit it looks a bit grim, but it's a small price to pay for all the _light_ that can now come pouring into the garden and the house in general – once the sun decides to venture from behind the heavy clouds, of course.

“Spain, you said?” he hums thoughtfully, and the ghost says nothing, but some part of Bilbo is now fine-tuned to his presence somehow, recognizing it, like a shift in the air, an odd waft of a breeze coming out of nowhere, even when the Captain doesn't wish to be seen.

“Yes. Beautiful country... odd looking trees.”

“I see,” Bilbo chuckles, “well I _am_ sorry about your loss, but it really was dreadfully inconveniently placed, good grief.”

“That's what _you_ think.”

“Well, we're almost done here, Master Baggins,” Bofur trots up to him, wiping sweat off his brow, “just going to load these up and clean up a bit, can't leave you with a battlefield of a lawn. Just a fair warning though, I know you said you didn't mind, but my Uncle thinks the old Captain knew what he was doing when he planted this monstrosity – it might have been protecting the house from the nasty west winds all this time.”

_That is true, by the way._

“...Oh,” Bilbo peeps.

“Yes. I guess you'll find out when the winter really starts bearing down on us all!” Bofur laughs cheerily, tipping his nonexistent hat to him and getting back to work.

“Couldn't have mentioned that before, could you?” Bilbo sifts through his teeth, “about the winds?”

_You didn't ask._

 

And so on, and so forth. Living with a ghost, not all that much hype, it turns out. The only difference between bunking with _the actual_ Captain Durin and the apparition of him, is that his... non-corporeal form, so to speak, has even more means at his disposal of annoying Bilbo. When Captain Durin disagrees, he has a habit of making the floorboards creak and the rafters threaten snapping. When he is in a maliciously teasing mood, the water on tap runs too cold when Bilbo requires it warm, and vice versa. When he is curious, he reads out the words of whatever book Bilbo is currently reading out loud, as if it's particularly hilarious to have passages of Byron's _Hours Of Idleness_ recited out of nowhere, so that it looks like the painting in the master bedroom is the one saying them.

He doesn't much respond when Bilbo talks to _him,_ though, and uses his... visible form only every so often, mostly to appear when Bilbo least expects him and startle an undignified gasp out of him. All in all, it's like... he's like a very reclusive guest who doesn't bother being in the least polite, and Bilbo has had his fair share of those, and so he remains mostly unperturbed.

After all, living by the sea proves a wonder and a good choice despite the many doubts, and that's all that matters – Frodo is quiet still, and Bilbo figures he's always going to be quiet, but he talks about school when prompted, and enjoys the little things, capable of keeping himself busy with only very few resources, which is a great relief for Bilbo, of course. He lends the boy book after book, letting him read sprawled in the grass while Bilbo himself tends to the garden, the shielding his vision from the afternoon sun with one of his sensible straw hats. He lets him help out with baking and cooking, and teaches him how to make snickerdoodles and shortbread cookies. He barely complains about nightmares anymore, and falls fast asleep very easily on most nights to Bilbo reading to him, and perhaps, that's all it takes. Time, a gentle hand, and seaside air.

 

Of course, as is the nature of things, nothing good lasts forever, uninterrupted – and so it is on one such calm early afternoon, Bilbo waiting for Frodo to come back from school accompanied by the shepherd who'd promised to keep an eye on him, when the Captain decides to grace him with his presence, and it turns out he's not the only one.

“Don't be ridiculous!” Bilbo huffs, folding laundry up in the master bedroom, “nobody would read that, even if you did manage to write it!”

“Oh, _plenty of people_ would read it!” the ghost declares indignantly, “I will have you know that the life I lead deserves several _volumes_ of books, and certainly beats all the literature _you_ have been reading.”

“Oh really?” Bilbo sniggers, “even _Frankenstein_?”

“ _That_ is a fable,” the Captain quite virtually puts his nose up, folding his hands and moving soundlessly to stand by his precious telescope (the last time Bilbo touched that, the plumbing stopped working and the house gurgled ominously for several hours), gazing out onto the sea, “ _my_ life was real. My _adventures_ were real. People would recognize that.”

“ _People_ would recognize that spending too much time on water gives one illusions of grandeur, nothing more,” Bilbo retorts playfully, and the ghost lets out an unhappy sound like the distant rumble of a thunderstorm, but then he stops abruptly, something catching his eye outside.

“You have visitors,” he announces, pronouncing the last word very sourly, “ _again._ ”

“Oh?” Bilbo hurries to stand next to him and see for himself, and his heart sinks.

“Oh,” he exhales, “oh, what are _you_ doing out here, you _dreadful_ woman...”

“Who is it?” the Captain suddenly seems curious accompanying Bilbo as he stomps down the stairs to receive the callers.

“Oh, _family,_ ” Bilbo groans, “don't you just _love it_ when _family_ come calling? Make yourself scarce, would you please?”

“Hmm, I think I'll stay and watch,” the ghost decides.

“You'll stay and – _fine,_ just... play nice! No sudden noises, do you hear me?” Bilbo scolds him, already preparing himself for the flurry of one Lobelia Sackville-Baggins waiting behind the door, already knocking in that incessantly annoying pattern only a person who wishes to aggravate her hosts even before she greets them can master.

“Well, I would _never_ ,” the Captain says amicably, and Bilbo scorches him with a decidedly dirty look before finally opening the door.

“Lobelia, what a lovely surprise-”

“Honestly, Bilbo, you live _in the middle of nowhere!_ It took us _hours_ to find a coach willing to take us here, and _by god_ is it windy here!”

“A pleasure, as always,” Bilbo sighs, “hello, Otho. Where is little Hugo?”

Lobelia's husband opens his mouth to respond, looking about as happy about this visit as Bilbo, but she continues on, in that shrill voice of hers Bilbo adores so: “Grandparents. Wouldn't drag him here if my life depended on it, of course. Well? Will you show us in? I must say, this place is _so_ unnecessarily large for you, don't you think?”

“ _So_ glad you let me know before you came,” Bilbo grunts, and leads the way to the kitchen.

“Charming,” the Captain utters, keeping close by, and Bilbo has to strain himself not to wave his hand at him, like an annoying fly he wants to make fly away.

“Well, it is a matter of _some_ urgency, you know,” Lobelia announces, scrunching up her nose at pretty much every single inch of the kitchen, from the bench to the tablecloth, from the display of mugs to the old stove.

“Is it?” Bilbo sighs, putting the kettle on, “surely you could have sent a telegraph?”

“Too late for that, cousin. Where on earth _is_ Frodo? Are you sure he hasn't gotten lost? Those cliffs look... dangerous.”

“He is at _school,_ Lobelia,” Bilbo hisses in her general direction, “now, would you mind telling me why you're really here?”

“You're running out of money,” she announces plainly, twisting the hem of the tablecloth between her fingers with particular disgust and glaring at it as if it is bound to give her some sort of horrid seaside infection.

“I'm – what? That's ridiculous,” Bilbo chuckles.

“Oh, far from it, cousin. Your father's property is being auctioned off. Turns out that speculation is only ever worth it if you're _actually_ good at it.”

“But – that doesn't make any sense!” Bilbo exclaims, “they need my agreement to do _anything_ , and-”

“You were the one who appointed a _city_ keeper to watch over the property, remember?” she points out completely casually, as if they're just discussing the weather.

“It's true,” Otho says, with much more compassion, “the newspapers are full of it. We _could_ help you find a lawyer-”

“But that would cost even more of the money you _don't have,_ ” Lobelia notes, “so it is obvious what the only _logical_ solution is, don't you think?”

“Do tell,” Bilbo sighs, slumping on the bench by the window, his heart suddenly heavy, beating dully.

“You pack up here, finish with this _seaside_ nonsense, and come back to the city with us.”

“But-”

“ _Don't listen to her._ ”

The Captain is leaning on his favorite door frame, scorching Lobelia with a look of an intensity she could never hope to achieve in her wildest dreams, but his words are clear.

“What?” Bilbo peeps, and piercing blue eyes focus at him now.

“Stay,” the Captain says clearly, and Bilbo's mouth must hang open quite comically – he looks from him to his relatives, just to check if they're seeing what he's seeing, hearing what he's hearing, but they are either completely oblivious to the intimidating man hovering nearby, or very good at pretending like they are.

“You want me to stay?” he mumbles.

“No, I just said, you _must_ come back with us!” Lobelia sputters, “you cannot very well survive here without any money.”

“I do,” the ghost nods shortly.

“But... The money...”

"Yes, the money! There is none, that is the problem. Are you quite well?"

"Blast the money. We'll figure something out."

" _We?_ " Bilbo snorts, and Otho and Lobelia exchange a telling look.

"Bilbo, are you listening?" she demands, shriller than ever, a clear cut sign that she's getting a bit impatient, "or has the seaside air gotten into your head so quickly?"

"I'm quite alright, Cousin," Bilbo mutters, "but I do think I'll be staying after all. Thank you for coming all this way."

"But-!" Lobelia protests feebly, but Bilbo ignores her, eyes only for the ghost, which to their eyes must look like he's just staring into space with a particularly distant expression.

"I'll be fine, I assure you," Bilbo mumbles, "won't you be staying for tea?"

"You've gone insane!" Lobelia accuses him, and Bilbo, suddenly feeling very lightheaded for reasons he can't quite explain, replies cheerfully: "Perhaps."

The Captain laughs, and both her and her husband startle, going from judgmental to frightened in a matter of seconds.

"What was that?" Lobelia demands, voice a bit too high-pitched.

"I didn't hear anything," Bilbo smiles sweetly.

"Sounded like a storm approaching," Otho muses tensely.

"Indeed?" Bilbo rests his chin on his hand, "in that case, you might want to return to the mainland before it comes. It's not nice, being stuck by the sea during a thunderstorm."

Captain Durin chuckles, clearly very amused with the whole situation, which comes with the side effect of the kettle hissing loudly, startling the Sackville-Bagginses even further.

"B-but what about Frodo?" Lobelia perseveres nevertheless, "you are free to grow old an insane bachelor all by your lonesome, but I won't let you drag him with!"

The Captain steps forward with a truly menacing look in his eyes. The rafters creak and whine, and the thunder of a storm Bilbo knows can't possibly be happening in the middle of a sunny afternoon rolls in the distance.

"I'm advising you to go now, Cousin," Bilbo says coolly, "Frodo is not yours to take care of, and my decisions aren't yours to judge. We'll be just fine, now go."

She stares at him, all puffed up and indignant, while her husband twitches nervously at the table, but Bilbo has had enough – he hardly plans on relenting any time soon. And besides, without her knowing, he's only half looking at her – behind her stands the Captain, and something in his serene expression grounds Bilbo, calms him down.

"Well, you are officially beyond any help, Bilbo Baggins," she announces at last.

"Glad we cleared that up. You are welcome to tell the entirety of London that, for all I care, but you will not come here again, with your vague insults and threats, are we understood?"

She opens her mouth with a horrified huff, as if to complain further, but then decides against it, apparently.

“Come, Otho," she commands her husband, "clearly our help isn't welcome here. To think I was willing to offer you my home to stay! Goes to show where generosity will take you!"

"Not very far at all, I'm afraid," Bilbo sniggers, "now if you would be so _generous_ as to _take your leave_."

The sound she lets out is not unlike the whistling of the kettle, though much more annoying, and then steers out of the kitchen, Otho, Bilbo and the clearly very amused Captain Durin in tow. She floats her way through the foyer, her skirt making her resemble a very pompous flagship navigating infuriatingly slowly to a harbor, and provides them with a lovely, _incessant_ string of complaining: “You spend _days_ here, and already you're ruder than ever I remember you! What you hope to accomplish here, I'll never know, but of course you're above _our_ help. Oh no, it's not like we're family. It's not like we took time out of our lives to travel all the way over – _ahh!_ ”

At first, Bilbo instantly blames the ghost for causing some sort of ruckus – but upon closer inspection, it's obvious that Cousin Lobelia has simply finally met Ursa the dog, and Bilbo can't really blame her for reacting the way she did, since the dog really is quite an intimidating sight.

He _can,_ however, laugh at her a little bit.

Ursa greets her the same way he greets anyone, really, with much vigor and some quantity of slobber, and it's really a delight to watch her attempt to escape him – unfortunately for her and her frilly dress, Beorn is nowhere near, and it takes a lot of effort from Bilbo and the newly arrived Frodo and to curb the dog's enthusiasm, until he's sitting quite calm, panting happily beside the boy.

"What is – you let this _creature_ near Frodo?!" Lobelia exclaims, shaken, and Bilbo can see the uncertainty in Frodo's eyes quite clearly, so he wastes no time coming over to him and standing up for both him and the dog: "It's the shepherd's dog. He's been walking Frodo from school every now and then, isn't that true?"

Frodo nods, beaming, but Lobelia remains unconvinced, of course.

"This is ridiculous! You let him walk from school alone?! Think of everything that could happen to him!"

"What manner of predators exactly do you imagine live around here?" Bilbo sniggers, and beside him the Captain laughs, like a warm breeze.

"I can't believe I let you come all the way here, good grief! Frodo, boy, surely you don't like this place all that much, do you?"

"Do not put words in his mouth, Lobelia, I am warning you," Bilbo says sternly while the lad looks helplessly from her to him.

"I am not! He is clearly unhappy here! Stick thin, poor child!"

" _Clearly_ unhappy?" Bilbo sneers, "I suppose it is your clairvoyance that allows you to know everything about his happiness, then?"

"Honestly, Cousin, I don't care what you do with your life, never quite have to be completely honest with you, but you cannot take an innocent child with you to-"

" _That's enough_."

Bilbo _knows_ the words aren't his own, or at least he thinks he does, but coming from his mouth or not, the Sackville-Bagginses hear them all the same. Lobelia opens her mouth like a fish out of water, and Otho glances from Bilbo to the house, looking in fact straight at the ghost – it is a ridiculous notion, but Bilbo feels stronger knowing that the actual owner of the house is just as irritated with his visitors as he is.

"You've done more than enough harm as it is," he says slowly, his voice sounding different even to his own ears, lower, more ominous, "Frodo and I are staying here, whether you like it or not. Unless you have some more insults to throw my way, I suggest you board that coach waiting for you and leave."

"I honestly can't believe how rude, you've gotten, Cousin-"

" _Now_. Frodo, lad, let's go inside."

His nephew obliges more than happily, the dog following him until he's safely in the doorway, letting him scratch him between the ears as a goodbye, and then swiftly running off in the direction of the hills.

“ _Goodbye,_ Lobelia. Otho,” Bilbo utters in the direction of his esteemed _family_ , both of them still flummoxed by the sight, and disappears inside, too, without another word. He shuts the door behind him resolutely, and it is only when he goes to stand by Frodo's side and gaze out of the window that he sees that the ghost lingers, just like the Sackville-Bagginses.

“Don't worry, Frodo, we're not going anywhere,” Bilbo mumbles, squeezing the boy's shoulder – and apparently, they'll have help ensuring that.

Lobelia makes to return to the house, her expression that of truly ridiculous anger, but before she can take two steps, the ghost pulls at her dress, making her stagger – for this, she obviously blames Otho, bearing down on him while he protests feebly. When he, too, starts to march off, away from the house this time, the Captain pushes him lightly, with such a casual look on his face that Bilbo giggles quietly.

Otho turns to his wife with a horrified and offended look, and before long, they begin squabbling in earnest, with the ghost assisting with a tug here and there to make them even more confused – just as Bilbo ponders going out there and putting an end to that invisible torture, the Sackville-Bagginses finally take their leave, heading for the road and the coach waiting for them. But apparently, as a goodbye, the Captain can't resist tripping Otho and giving Lobelia one last gentle push, until they are properly sent off, annoyed, confused, and arguing and complaining louder than the ever-present seagulls.

“And that's it,” Bilbo chuckles, ruffling Frodo's hair, “what do you say we have something to eat now, hm? Go on, then, put your things away and wash your hands.”

Frodo skitters off obediently, though he shoots a look or two over his shoulder, as if he wants to make doubly sure that their relatives aren't coming back – for his part, Bilbo only has eyes for the ghost, who gives the departing Sackville-Bagginses one last fluttering wave goodbye, before turning to the house with a pleased smile.

“Ridiculous,” Bilbo shakes his head with a smile of his own.

“Necessary, I think.”

All of a sudden, the Captain isn't out there anymore, but right beside him – Bilbo hides his surprise well, or at least he thinks he does.

“I didn't think you could, um... touch. Things, that is,” he notes a bit clumsily.

“If they annoy me, I can,” the Captain shrugs.

“I see.”

“It tires me out, though,” he offers conversationally, the two of them standing side by side and watching the coach rattle away up the road and out of their sight, “or, I suppose that's not the right term, I don't know. Can't keep _this_ up for very long, after.”

 _This_ turns out to be... well, the parts of him that he chooses to let Bilbo see.

“You're... fading,” Bilbo peeps, feeling a wave of nausea coming on out of nowhere.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” the Captain sighs, as if it's just a mild annoyance, “my apologies. It's only...”

_Temporary._

“Well, thank you anyway,” Bilbo sighs, and the house hums in approval.

 

But even though they might have chased them out, the Sackville-Bagginses apparently stayed long enough to leave something behind – Bilbo is all but ready to doze off that night, when he hears a quiet pitter-patter of bare feet on the floor outside his room, and the door clicks open with some fumbling. Inside peeks Frodo, disheveled and uncertain.

“What's wrong?” Bilbo asks, and the boy invites himself in and hurries to Bilbo's bed, climbing it and hiding under his blanket without a word.

“Are you scared of something?” Bilbo ventures a guess, and Frodo curls up on himself with a quiet whimper of agreement.

“Strange noises?” Bilbo sighs, shooting the painting of the Captain a telling, scolding look.

_I didn't do anything._

“Nu-uh,” Frodo peeps.

“Then what is it, darling?”

“Will I have to go back to the city with Aunt Lobelia?”

It's so quiet Bilbo can barely hear, but clear enough.

“Oh, no, no, of course not,” he sighs, soothing the boy's back, “oh, I wouldn't let her have you if she waged a war on me, dear boy.”

“You promise?” Frodo sniffles, then, as if admitting to some great secret, “I like it here.”

“I know you do,” Bilbo smiles, letting his nephew curl up by his side, “I like it here, too. And I do, I promise, you'll never have to go anywhere you don't want to, alright?”

“Mm'alright,” Frodo murmurs, already burrowing deeper under the blanket.

“Go to sleep now,” Bilbo ruffles his hair, planting a light kiss in it, “by tomorrow, you'll have forgotten they ever even came here.”

The boy's breathing stills soon enough, and Bilbo holds him close gently and stares into the darkness of the room, sleep not quite coming his way just yet.

_What happened to his parents?_

“Excuse me?” he whispers.

 _His parents,_ the ghost has enough decency not to appear out of nowhere, his voice coming seemingly from every corner of the room at once, _what happened to them?_

“They drowned,” Bilbo mumbles, and beside him, Frodo stirs and exhales shakily in his sleep, holding onto his arm tighter.

_The sea?_

The silence of the house is almost tense, anticipatory.

“No,” Bilbo sighs, “a river. Doesn't matter.”

Silence, again, for the longest time.

“What am I going to do?” Bilbo murmurs, closing his eyes and not really expecting an answer, but perhaps hoping for it, just a little bit – but the house doesn't offer it.

 

Uneasy dreams and the lack of space in his bed both plague him that night, and he often drifts in and out of sleep, his senses cheating him, seeing a figure by the bed, hearing the mellow tone of a voice he _almost_ recognizes... He wakes up feeling not very refreshed at all, the bitterness of last day's encounter still heavy on his mind, but he has more important things to worry about now.

But for his part, Frodo seems entirely unaffected by the Sackville-Bagginses' visit. He springs out of bed readily, gets dressed in a hurry, and carries half his breakfast with him on the road – still feeling very protective over him, Bilbo accompanies him to the city, but it's as if the boy has no recollection of yesterday whatsoever. Which, well, is probably for the better, but still, Bilbo can't help but think... No. It matters not.

He sees him outside again from very far away, standing in front of the house and staring off at the horizon – he greets him nicely enough, the Captain, as if they've simply been cohabiting peacefully all this time, as if he's been waiting for Bilbo to come home, with a cup of tea and biscuits waiting on the table, and he despises how much better entertaining that entirely silly idea makes him feel.

“So, you're running out of money,” the ghost mentions, hovering while Bilbo has to, in fact, make the aforementioned biscuits and tea on his own.

“Well, not today, _or_ tomorrow, hopefully,” Bilbo grumbles, “I'll have to send some letters to find out what's _really_ going on, but if it's true...”

“Then it is true, so what,” the Captain waves his hand, looking almost annoyed at the very notion of Bilbo thinking practically, “you'll be staying anyway, isn't that correct?”

“And why are _you_ so inclined to make me stay all of a sudden?” Bilbo quirks an eyebrow, sipping on his tea daintily when the ghost doesn't seem to find the right words.

“I want you to write my book for me,” he says at long last, which makes Bilbo choke on said tea just a bit.

“E-excuse me?”

“Think about it, we both benefit,” the Captain becomes more animated, excited, “I get to tell my story, and you get to reap the benefits. The publication will provide you with all the money you could possibly need to stay here. What do you say?”

“You're – _why_ would I do that? Why do you want this book written so badly?”

“Because,” the ghost starts, then grows quiet, some distant, foreign emotion creasing his brow for the flicker of a moment, before he says more clearly, “because it is the only thing of mine I wish to leave behind.”

Bilbo stares wordlessly for a moment of his own, forgetting to chew, and sees, perhaps for the first time, the man from the painting in the master bedroom before his very eyes – a commanding figure, a man he knows nothing about except for his title, a man whose story _certainly_ deserves to be told. He's rather astonishing... And when he catches Bilbo looking, he frowns so powerfully Bilbo hides behind his cup of tea and drowns his blush in it.

“Will you do it?” the Captain asks plainly, “I have no use for money anymore, it'll be all yours, while the story, mine. Will you?”

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond – thinks of Frodo, with his few words and his curious eyes and his brand new leather school bag he's so excited about. Thinks about the garden surrounding the house, unkempt but really starting to show its potential. Thinks about London and Lobelia and Otho, all the innovation, all those inventions passing him by at a dizzying speed simply by not being there to witness them... Thinks of the fresh smell of the sea in the morning, and the breeze whispering in the tall grass, and the sun setting, sinking into the water on the horizon and setting the sky ablaze with oranges and purples.

“Alright,” he throws his hands up, “alright, fine, I'll do it.”

“Excellent,” the Captain grins a pleased, if a bit wolfish, grin, “excellent.”

All in all, for all Bilbo knows, striking a deal with a ghost might be the one even remotely exciting thing about his current predicament.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I really enjoyed the scene in the movie where the ghost helped chase out the meddling relatives, so this was really fun to write :D Even with the somber Frodo footnote at the end. Hope you liked it!


	5. Chapter 5

“But this doesn't make any sense!”

“It makes _perfect_ sense, you're just not listening very carefully!”

“Well _excuse me_ for seeing the blatant _plot holes_ for what they are,” Bilbo groans, leaning back in his chair, away from the typewriter.

“Are you saying my story lacks in continuity?” the Captain narrows his eyes, lounging, for entirely selfish reasons, Bilbo suspects, right next to his own painting on the ottoman.

“I'm _saying_ it lacks in _truth!_ ” he jabs a finger at him, “obviously you're keeping more to yourself than you're actually telling me! What about the years you spent in Spain? What about your training, and before that? What about your _childhood?_ ”

“Oh _please,_ no one cares about all that!” the ghost waves his hand dismissively.

“Goes to show, you've never read a good memoir,” Bilbo accuses him, “that's _all_ that _anyone_ cares about! It gives the story depth! Shows where you came from, engages the reader and makes them _sympathize!_ Honestly, this is rudimentary storytelling!”  
“Are _you_ telling the story, or am I?” the Captain crosses his arms.

“You are, but I am responsible for making it presentable, aren't I?” Bilbo reminds him, “and I can't very well achieve that if I know _next to nothing_ about you. I get the air of... of debonair mystery, I really do, but the story _cannot_ be all riddles! For example, this – there's a blank space _years_ long between your enlisting in the navy and working your way up to commanding your own ship. This is important knowledge!”

“It's _boring_ knowledge, is what it is,” the ghost counters stubbornly, beginning to pace the room, growing irritated, “ _nothing_ happened in those years, except for tedious training day and night, and trying my best to survive under the reign of this or that tyrannical Commander.”

“And _how exactly_ is _that_ boring?” Bilbo laughs, if a bit hysterically, losing patience himself, “the young recruit with his own idea about the rules, struggling with authority and never quite settling? See? That's something we can build on, isn't it?”

“Hmph,” is Captain Durin's dignified response.

“Let's see, then – you joined the navy alongside your brother, didn't you?” Bilbo flits through the sporadic notes he's managed to wring out of him so far, “had that always been something you two wanted to do? Or did he decide to follow the example of his older brother? What happened to him, anyway?”

The ghost stops abruptly by the window, his hand briefly hovering over the brass telescope, before grumbling over his shoulder: “That's _personal._ ”

“ _Of course_ it is personal, for crying out loud!” Bilbo exclaims, “it's _your_ story! How do you expect it to be written without getting a little bit personal?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“And you don't answer nearly enough of them. Do you want this book written or not?!”

Staring down a ghost – most definitely one of the things Bilbo would have laughed over had someone suggested them a couple of months ago. Alas, if he once thought this would be in any way ordinary, he doesn't harbor any such illusions anymore.

Same goes for this storytelling business – perhaps he'd expected the Captain would actually be _willing_ to share the story with him. And it _is_ an interesting one, Bilbo can sense it, but maybe not for all the same reasons Captain Durin seems to think so. All is well with swashbuckling adventures and daredevil voyages, but for all their abundance, Bilbo is far more interested in the man behind them.

But if _the man behind them_ himself won't divulge anything that might be in the general vicinity of _too personal,_ then, well, Bilbo will have to start investigating on his own. As one does.

And there's no one more excited about sharing gossip, unintentionally or otherwise, than a certain Missus Gamgee and her flock of town mothers, gathering in her store on the lazy afternoons like clockwork. Bilbo has managed to find his way to their midst quite easily – if the fact that he's a bachelor living in an _allegedly_ haunted house and raising a boy entirely on his own was enough to spark their interest, then earning their trust by playing along and expressing genuine interest in _them,_ as well as playing his role of a slightly mysterious but warm (and _tragically_ lonely, the ladies have decided) newcomer, has plunged him right in their midst, probably the only man privy to their gatherings and gossip sessions in the small garden behind Missus Gamgee's store.

Between advising Missus Eglantine Took on planting her tomatoes, and sharing his prized shortbread recipe with Missus Esmeralda Bolger, he's officially earned their trust enough so that he can try and pursue his own interests for just a bit.

“I'm afraid nobody knows very much at all about the Captain,” Missus Gamgee declares, all the other ladies nodding, when Bilbo finally phrases his question, “he never was a particularly warm fellow. Always off on his travels, of course. One could never be too sure he was really there, even when he did decide to stay, because he rarely ever came to town. Always had someone else pick up his groceries, from what I remember.”

“That sister of his used to look after the house while he was gone, didn't she,” Missus Took adds, “a very nice lady, two beautiful boys, but one didn't see much of them either. I understand she was a widow, poor thing.”

“Was?” Bilbo quirks an eyebrow, attempting to sound as innocuous as possible, not dreadfully curious at all, “what happened to her and her boys, do you know?”

“Not really, no,” Bell Gamgee hums pensively, “they just stopped coming one day, didn't they.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose they did,” Missus Bolger nods, “all of a sudden. They were very private people, after all.”

“I remember they called a doctor to their house that one time,” Missus Bolger chimes in, “for one of the boys, I believe. Remember?”

“Oh, that's true, they did,” Missus Gamgee recalls, “poor old doctor Brown. My husband was the one who drove him there, I think...”

“Why? What happened?” Bilbo has forgotten his biscuit dunking in the tea for too long, and it dissolves into useless mush.

“Oh, I couldn't tell you that even if I tried, I'm afraid,” Bell chuckles, “such a long time ago, it was.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo ponders, “and what about the doctor himself? Is he still... around, so to speak?”

“Yes, yes, lives in town still. Retired now, I believe,” Missus Took offers, “we still see him around, don't we Esme, in the market sometimes. He's... well, his mind is not all there anymore, you see, but still makes the best peppermint cough drops around...”

“What is with all this sudden interest in the Captain's family?” Missus Gamgee pays closer attention, and Bilbo only smiles politely, shuffling in his chair.

“Oh, you know,” he says, “I'm just curious. I'm sure he has a very exciting story.”

“No doubt, no doubt. All great seamen do. Shame he never thought to tell it to anyone.”

“Yes,” Bilbo chuckles, “shame.”

 

But once he's started investigating, there's no stopping – gently but diligently, he manages to discover the old doctor's address, and stops by his house while there's still time before Frodo's school day concludes.

He resides in a very peculiar hut a little ways away from the center of town, overlooking the harbor from its own little hill, sunken almost completely, not unlike Bilbo's house, in overgrown and unkempt greenery – he recognizes some remnants of flowerbeds, a herb garden even, perhaps, but it's all been left to its own devices, growing wild.

There is no bell to ring by the small crooked metal gate, surrendered almost completely to rust, and Bilbo doesn't really know whether he should be so bold as to invite himself further in and go knock on the door – all of that is decided for him soon enough fortunately, when he sees an old man limping up the hill, his cane taller than him by a long shot, startling when he sees Bilbo.

“Oh, hello, you're finally here!” he exclaims, hurrying the last couple of steps toward him, “a day late, but it doesn't matter! Your salve is ready, come in, come in!”

“No no no, I'm not here for any... um, salve,” Bilbo tries to correct him, but is forced to follow him nevertheless, as he limps with increased (and impressive vigor) to the house now, “I just... wondered if I could ask you something.”

“About a salve?” the alleged doctor giggles, concentrating on the key rattling in the lock – his smile is an honest one, his face round and pleasant, and yet there is something about the... distant, distracted manner of his movements that hints at the fact that his mind is, as Missus Took had so aptly described, not all there after all.

“No, no, not about any salve,” Bilbo shakes his head indulgently, “you see, me and my nephew recently moved in at the Oak Cottage, and I heard in town that you used to know the previous owner? A Captain Durin?”

“Oh, Oak Cottage!” the doctor exclaims happily, “oh, of course, a lovely house, isn't it? The Captain is such a strapping fellow, don't you think? How is he?”

“Um,” Bilbo peeps, but before he can remind the man of the unfortunate truth, the door finally opens, and the doctor limps inside without any regard whatsoever for his company – Bilbo, as is his nature, follows.

“He's dead now,” he announces, firmly believing that straightforward is the way to go, “has been for quite some time now, remember?”

“He's... oh. Of course he is,” doctor Brown babbles, rummaging through his numerous belongings for... _something_ , “for quite some time now, yes. What salve did we agree upon, again?”

“No, no _salves,_ doctor, at least not today, thank you,” Bilbo sighs, casting a curious look to the peculiar interior, dried tufts of herbs hanging from the ceiling, strange vials and jars full of spices and more ground herbs covering just about every available surface.

“Then were you the one who wanted the tea for his wife? Because let me tell you, there's only so much a tea can do in the ways of lovemaking-”

“ _No,_ I'm not here about... _that,_ either,” Bilbo sputters, “I just wanted to ask you a question or two.”

“About the Captain,” the doctor mutters.

“Yes, about the Captain.”

“Strapping fellow, he was, yes, hmm,” the short man mumbles to himself while Bilbo attempts to avoid knocking anything over, “always bought lots of tea to help him sleep at night, he did. When he was in town, that is.”

“That's fascinating, yes. Though I've been wondering about his nephews. They tell me you were summoned there once, shortly before they stopped coming here? The boys with their mother, I mean?”

“Oh," the doctor says, then remains quiet for a moment, up to the point that Bilbo starts worrying he's forgotten his presence completely – when he speaks again, his voice is feeble, and sad: "Such a lovely lady. Her boys, too. Do you know if they're ever coming back?"

"I was actually hoping you might be able to tell me that, sir," Bilbo sighs, getting just a tad exasperated, "do you know what happened to them? The Captain's family?"

No more answers, just the old man's incomprehensible muttering.

"Sir?" Bilbo attempts.

"Ah-ha! I knew it was here somewhere!" he exclaims out of the blue, startling Bilbo, turning to him with a grin truly victorious, "lavender drops, my very last batch! One drop in your boy's tea in the morning and before bed again, and he'll be alright in no time!"

"No, I – huh?" Bilbo inclines his head helplessly.

"Now, remember to store the vial somewhere dark, or they get bitter mighty fast, oh yes..."

"Doctor," Bilbo speaks louder now, "I don't  _ want _ any drops! I was asking you about the family of Captain Durin, remember? The one from Oak Cottage?"

"That, yes. Terribly sad, it was. Poor boys."

"But what  _ happened _ to the boys?" Bilbo is desperate now.

The old doctor looks at him curiously, as if it's the first time he's really paying attention to him, and Bilbo nods hopefully... But it's gone faster than it came, the man giggling to himself and turning away, another fleeting thought capturing and distracting him, and Bilbo realizes it's no use - he won't be getting any coherent information out of him any time soon.

"What do I owe you for this?" he sighs, resigned, taking the vial of the mysterious drops in his hand and inspecting its dark contents.

"Oh, nothing of course, free of charge for you and your boy," doctor Brown babbles happily, fluently switching back to his muttering only he can clearly understand. Bilbo opens his mouth to try and ask him how he knows about Frodo, but then it occurs to him the man might not even know who he is talking to, come to think of it.

"Well then, uh... thank you, that's very generous of you," he says, clutching the vial in his hand, though he's not entirely sure why he's decided to take it in the first place.

"Yes, yes, yes, absolutely, now send the next one in, if you would be so kind..." the doctor babbles on, and having exhausted his share of questions  _ and _ patience, Bilbo leaves him to it and backs out of the strange small house into the blinding afternoon sun.

The odd encounter stays with him for the rest of the day – he’s lost in thought their entire walk back to the house, letting Frodo (and Sam this time, whose father has promised to stop by for him later) run ahead and laugh without a care in the world. Since the Gamgee's boy is visiting, Bilbo doesn't get a chance to ask the Captain about the peculiar doctor until later that evening, and when first he mentions the man's name and asks about the Captain's mysterious sister and nephews, the ghost disappears without a trace or a word of explanation and doesn’t speak to him for the rest of the night.

"Fine, have it your way, it's your book, not mine," Bilbo sighs and shrugs, and the house lulls him to sleep with the rafters creaking gently in a discordant melody that is strangely familiar to him now, and the distant plucking of a harp that might as well be the beginnings of one of his dreams already.

  
  


In fact, the Captain refuses to communicate for entirely longer than is usual for him. He doesn't see fit to comment on Bilbo's decision to rearrange the dining room the next day, and doesn’t even bother helping him by blowing out the lamps lining the staircase in the evening, as has become a habit for them both – he doesn't complain when Bilbo uproots a good half of the drying rose hip bushes by the road, and offers no explanation when an old unused well is uncovered in the back of the garden, its mouth barred by rotting but solid wooden planks.

Even when Bilbo makes an attempt at writing more of his story on his own, Captain Durin keeps his distance, though Bilbo is certain that reading his notes out loud to him and speculating in the most ridiculous manner about his actual achievements must drive the ghost  _ insane _ .

But no, nothing, no response for two whole days – it is only when Bilbo starts baking and preparing for having more of Frodo's classmates over (the boy's own idea, which he was happy to go along with, especially since Frodo bravely brought it up on his own) that the cantankerous Captain's interest is spiked once more.

"Are you expecting to feed a battalion with that?"

His voice is hoarser than Bilbo remembers it, quieter too, and yet, despite yelping in shock and mushing the cookie he's been shaping into a useless ball, he's glad to hear it.

"What did I tell you about that collar with a bell on it?" he scolds, his own voice fortunately only wavering a little bit.

"I'm not your dog," the ghost grumbles, moving to inspect the tray of cookies already baked, as if they're in need of a thorough scrutiny.

"No, you're right," Bilbo sighs, "dogs are much more polite. In answer to your question, those are supposed to feed four hungry boys, so I suppose a battalion is an apt comparison. Keep your hands off."

"Couldn't eat them if I wanted to," the ghost chuckles dryly, “and I didn’t agree to inviting the entire town here."

"Four small children is what I said, I believe. You'll barely notice them. Certainly I hope they'll barely notice  _ you _ ."

"I can make no such promises," the Captain declares simply, the wickedly teasing undertone still apparent to Bilbo, though.

"Stop mucking about," he wags a finger at him, "remember our deal."

"Yes,  _ that _ has been going  _ splendidly _ , hasn't it," the ghost says tersely, moving on to brood by the window, clasping his hands behind his back and gazing out onto the expanse of the sea, just another one of the shadows in the dim kitchen, in his black ensemble, heavy boots and oiled trousers with an old sweater that Bilbo still thinks is a bit too much for the weather this time of the year (and he sometimes wonders if a ghost's clothes can change, or if they are, in fact, the ones the Captain died in...).

"And whose fault is that exactly?" he reminds him, "I have been trying, I'm perfectly willing to work on this story if only you extend me the courtesy of actually telling me anything that is even remotely true! How long do you think we can keep tiptoeing around certain topics? And how excited do you think people will be to read a story that hides more than it tells? What  _ did _ happen to your sister and nephews?"

"Too many questions!" the Captain booms, and the stove, simmering happily and calmly up until then, sizzles threateningly.

"Oh but you are impossible!" Bilbo exclaims, "don't blame me for not holding up my end of the bargain, if you won’t even consider being truthful with me! Now shoo, the boys are coming. Off you go!"

"You don't  _ shoo _ me in my own house!"

"Oh, really? That's strange, because I think I just did!" Bilbo hisses, dusting off his hands and setting the uncooked batter aside so that he may welcome the visitors.

"I don't want to hear another peep out of you!" he remembers to scold the ghost, who has deserted the kitchen without a word, and can now be heard complaining up in the master bedroom – Bilbo expects to come back to his neat stacks of fresh laundry tossed up all over the place, and perhaps a haphazardly unlatched window or two, but for now, he hasn't the time to worry about that.

It was Missus Gamgee's truly enlightened idea to let the other mothers of her little gossip group know just how much fun her son has been having over at the feared Oak Cottage – Bilbo is all for changing the house's grim reputation, of course (despite the fact that it is, well, true), but he’s obviously miscalculated, expecting the ladies to be firmly against letting their offspring spend time alone so far from home. As it is, the parents of both little Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took jumped at the chance to commit their children to Bilbo's care for one lazy afternoon.

Both boys are somewhat endearingly scrawny, and Bilbo has often seen them running around town without any supervision whatsoever, following this or that group of older children or trying their luck looking inconspicuous by the docks and snatching a fish for themselves or playing hide and seek between the crates and boats. But all that matters is that Frodo considers them his friends now, and Bilbo is prepared to extend his hospitality to anyone who is nice to his nephew, really.

He is only one man, of course, and past feeding them all, he can’t hope to herd them much beyond the point of forbidding them from leaving the garden to dash off to play with Beorn’s sheep, and  _ absolutely _ no trying to pry the lid of the old well open.

Frodo is so much livelier around them, smiles brighter and occasionally even has something to say, and Bilbo stands on the back porch, munching on the last leftover cookie, and wishes the boy's mother were here to see it.

He misses his cousin Primula so much he aches with it sometimes, and he's not entirely sure what she would have to say about his decision to bring Frodo with – then again, he's not entirely sure what she'd say about anything. It was all a bit too sudden for everyone, and all that Bilbo is really sure of is that she would want the boy to be taken care of properly, with love. He can provide that much, he sincerely hopes.

“This is outrageous.”

“Oh, don't you start,” Bilbo sighs, managing to flinch only a little bit when the Captain suddenly stands by his side, watching the four boys kicking around a ball that little Sam had brought with him, all loud laughter and muddy knees and tousled hair, with a look of detached disapproval.

“They're too loud,” the ghost announces, like a grouchy old man roused from his afternoon kip far too early, “too careless around the glass displays, you saw them, they almost broke that tea set I'd gotten in Paris! Too careless. Too loud, too...”

“Too...?” Bilbo imitates him sardonically, adding lightly, “you're running out of adjectives. They're _children._ They're supposed to be loud and careless. Or did you not learn that with your nephews?”

“ _Enough_ about my nephews,” the Captain utters, a vague threat lingering behind those words, “you know nothing about them.”

“Only because you won't tell me,” Bilbo shrugs.

The boys' laughter carries, and the ghost doesn't respond, but he doesn't disappear either – Bilbo watches _him_ for a change, for as long as he's allowed to do so, and sees him following the boys' every movement with a care that can only mean one thing. His suspicions are confirmed when, entirely out of the blue, Merry decides to scale the ancient briar bush crawling its way up the far wall of the house, and before Bilbo can register it, his foot slips and he tumbles backward – it is not a long fall, he's barely lifted himself above ground, and yet, as Bilbo calls after him to be careful, that call echoes in the Captain's own, less a voice and more the wind picking up and rustling in the leaves of the elms and the tall grass, urgent and worried, before the man realizes, realizes it's no good and draws back, turning away.

“We're alright, Mister Bilbo!” the boys call, Merry dusting off his trousers and dashing off someplace else again, completely unscathed, and after making sure to forbid them from any more dangerous antics, Bilbo finally says to the ghost what he's been thinking all this time: “You love them.”

“What now?” the Captain grumbles, striding away to the far side of the veranda, to look away and off to the sea, as is his habit when he broods.

“The children,” Bilbo follows him mercilessly, “you like having them around, because you used to have them around all the time, isn't that right?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Oh, that's rich, coming from you,” Bilbo annoys him further, “you're very good at acting all cold, very good indeed, but it's obvious.”

“What is?” the ghost sighs, still stubbornly glaring at the horizon, the clouds gathering slowly but surely like water beginning to boil, a promise of a rainy night. Bilbo steps closer, far too intrigued now to stop.

“Whatever happened to your nephews,” he says much more gently, less teasing, “it's long gone now. _You_ are long gone, as well, and yet, by some cruel trick of fate, you're... well, still here. You've no one to make amends to but yourself. Telling your story is a good way to do that, but not unless we tell it in its entirety.”

The man stands there motionless for the longest time, staring ahead, and Bilbo notes how _real_ he looks – the sharp afternoon sun pronounces his terse features, bleaches his eyes an even lighter blue... specks of dust glitter around him like the tiniest golden sparks, but if Bilbo watches close, they never settle, simply swirl lazily, as if they naturally know to avoid him – he wonders, heedlessly, if the ghost can feel, can smell the fresh scent of brine carried here on the breeze, yet warm, or the smooth wooden railing of the porch, or the sun on his face.

His eyes turn to Bilbo, and he really is his own painting come to life (well, figuratively speaking, anyway), stunning and intimidating, always leaving him a bit breathless.

“If – if you don't want to say, I understand,” Bilbo tries yet again, not entirely sure himself why he's doing it, “but you want this story told, don't you?”

“Not every detail,” the Captain says, his voice rough, as if even admitting that much pains him.

“Understandable,” Bilbo smiles in what he hopes might be at least a somewhat encouraging manner, “no one says _all of it_ has to go in the actual book itself, you know.”

“Meaning...?” the ghost quirks one impressive eyebrow.

“Meaning... well,” Bilbo chuckles, “I think it would be a shame, not telling the whole story to _someone._ ”

“You,” the Captain scoffs.

“At least you'll _tell it,_ ” Bilbo points out, “how much of it actually goes in the book for the rest of the world to know, we shall decide together, after all. But _telling it in its entirety? That_ is really what you want, isn't it? Even if it's to just one person.”

The ghost opens his mouth and appears almost offended – for his part, Bilbo doesn't really blame him, sometimes his silly curiosity and cheekiness get the better of him – but before either of them can say more, the boys come barreling onto the back porch, trailing mud everywhere, announcing what neither Bilbo nor the Captain have noticed yet, too engrossed in their strange conversation: it's started raining, earlier than anticipated, nothing but a quiet pitter-patter on the wooden roof.

“Mister Bilbo, can we have more cookies now?” Pippin asks with a disarming grin, probably the dirtiest one of them all, covered head to toe in twigs and grass and dust, more than befitting the leader of the boys' expedition through the unexplored parts of the garden.

“I, oh... of course,” Bilbo looks from the ghost to them, a bit startled and blindsided, “well, oh – there are actually no cookies left, I'm afraid you ate them all, boys, but go on, get inside, get washed up, all of you! And I'll... yes, I'll go see about making us all something quick to bite... Go on, inside, hurry!”

They obey, dashing inside with squeals of delight, loud as ever, and Bilbo sighs, turning back to the Captain – who stands there still, a somewhat forlorn look in his eyes.

“Thank you for staying out of sight,” Bilbo says a bit pointlessly, “though I must say, it's very distracting when I'm the only one who can see you and I'm forced to carry a conversation anyway...”  
“A storm is coming,” the ghost announces, as if he hasn't heard a single word Bilbo just said, and before he can point _that_ out, there is no more Captain Durin on the back porch, and the rain begins to fall ever harder.

“...Of course,” Bilbo shakes his head, not even attempting to understand a dead man's whims at this point, and heads back inside himself.

Once again, the ghost keeps his distance, but this time, Bilbo doesn’t feel like he's offended him in any particular way – hopefully just made him think, which, he admits, can be equally as annoying an outcome.

His suspicions are proven completely right the very next morning – he doesn't even notice it at first, almost walks past it on his way to wake up Frodo, but then his thinking finally catches up with his vision, and he stops, and stares.

The door to the attic is open, casually half ajar as if he just forgot it to close it last night, and Bilbo scratches his head, deep in thought, because... did he? 

"Does this mean I can go have a look now?" he asks cautiously.

The house is utterly silent.

He takes a step closer, and meets with no resistance whatsoever. He makes himself control the sudden excitement.

"You're not going to shut the door behind me and lock me in there forever?" he speculates.

The house doesn't have a response for that, either.

"Well then," Bilbo gulps, "here goes, I suppose."

The door is narrow and the stairway beyond dark and dangerously crooked, and Bilbo returns to the house's main staircase to light on if the oil lamps there and take it with him. It's only a couple of creaking wooden steps up to the attic, but it's like stepping into a whole another world – ahead he sees the faintest glow from what must be some sort of skylight, and he steps forth only with the utmost care, sensing the shapes of things he cannot name ahead in the darkness, scattered about in a pattern that is probably haphazard at best. It wouldn't do to break his leg tripping over a stray shelf right now.

He stops and tries to make his eyes adjust to the lack of light, his lamp doing very little to illuminate anything – he thinks he sees an uneven shape up ahead, something taller than him, an old cloth draped over it, but he’s more concerned about the distant scurrying he hears, like frantic mice, and what might be the plucking of strings, just like he's been hearing in his dreams every now and then, quiet and somehow hollow...

" _Ahh!_ " he cries out in a sudden nasty surprise when something brushes at his wrist, and jumps back, hitting his shin on what might be a toppled shelf or a beam, or simply just a torture device designed to bring him to pained tears.

"Uncle!" Frodo exclaims, and sounds equally as frightened, large eyes shining bright in the dancing light of Bilbo's lamp.

"Oh, it's only you," Bilbo lets out a shuddering sigh, "wait outside for me lad, this is no place to wander."

But Frodo merely shakes his head furiously, clutching onto Bilbo's sleeve and standing close by him, scanning the darkness surrounding them with equal parts worry and curiosity.

"Well, alright, just tread lightly," Bilbo tells him.

They proceed further until they come by the actual large space of the attic, the skylight finally offering some more light – directly below it stands... something, tall and broad, smooth curved shapes Bilbo doesn't recognize.

"Can we...?" he peeps, and when the house doesn't have an answer, and Frodo merely shrugs, Bilbo sets the lantern down on the nearest flat surface, tells his nephew not to move an inch, and steps valiantly closer.

The cloth is heavy but silky smooth, age and a steady layer of dust rendering its original color almost unrecognizable – Bilbo drags it off the mysterious object only carefully and with some hardship, and all that dust rises in puffs and clouds as the fabric pools on the ground.

"Oh, my," Bilbo exhales, coughing away the dust.

"What is it?" Frodo asks timidly.

"That is a harp, my lad," Bilbo sighs reverently, fingertips ghosting over the majestic curve of it, the carved wood still gleaming as if it was only made yesterday, honey-brown and smooth.

"Is it the Captain's, I wonder...?" Bilbo murmurs, resisting the temptation to run his fingers through the translucent strings, hear its sound as more than an echo on the precipice of his dreams. 

_ My sister's _ , the dark corners whisper,  _ do cover it back up when you're done here. _

"Yes, of course I will..." Bilbo mutters absentmindedly.

"Uncle, look!"

Frodo sounds tense, and so Bilbo turns to him immediately, but fortunately he's alright, only crouching by a large chest by the wall – the look of it doesn’t fill Bilbo with much confidence, but the lad is already struggling to unlatch the lid, and there are no complaints from the house yet, so he figures they might as well see what is inside.

Toys. Countless toys, an old soft teddy bear with eyes of brass buttons, a wooden whipping-top, scratched and beaten, colors fading; an abacus and a skipping rope, too, a music box with a dancing ballerina on top... An entire painted box full of tin toy soldiers, complete with muskets and their horses. Frodo's eyes blaze with excitement, but he barely dares touch, only watches, and fidgets.

"Oh, these are gorgeous," Bilbo sighs, then, kindly, "can we bring them downstairs, do you think?"

The house is utterly silent for one hesitant moment.

_...You may. _

 

They discover the rest with time – despite his excitement about the new toys, Frodo does have to go to school, and Bilbo spends an eventful, and dusty, afternoon cleaning everything up and returning to the attic time and time again, to unearth more and more mathoms from a time long gone.

The pictures, he only finds by accident, really, while sifting his way through the abandoned drawer of letters the Captain had made him promise not to read. 

A woman and a man and their two children, every miniscule detail of their faces captured masterfully, a young, happy family, one of the boys a newborn still in his mother's arms. Bilbo doesn't have to ask to know exactly who they are, the woman's eyes gazing at him with a familiar intensity, her dark hair and sharp, almost regal nose a perfect likeness of her brother.

He is allowed to carry that downstairs as well, and sits with it at the kitchen table, brushing the thin layer of the ubiquitous dust off it gently with a soft cloth, the ghost lingering nearby, the silence of the tense, anticipatory kind.

"I suppose you're really not going to tell me what happened to them, are you?" he murmurs, thinking of the rough letters carved into the log on the beach below the house, and the quiet mass of the musical instrument waiting up below the roof, untouched for years and years – he longs so much to know the story behind it all, to hear what it was like when an actual family lived in this house, and find out where the harp stood – the dining room? or maybe Frodo's bedroom? - but as it is, getting answers out of someone who is reluctant to give them is difficult enough when they are alive, much less... this.

_ All in due time _ , the house whispers to him, and Bilbo sighs, fingertips barely touching the old, fraying paper of the bundle of letters that no doubt hold  _ some _ of the answers he's looking for, and agrees: "All in due time."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we learn a bit more about Dis, though yes, all in due time. And don't ask me how the names work, I just needed a colorful flock of townsfolk, and I know they're all originally related to Bilbo and/or Frodo in one way or another, but let's just go with it for the time being :D Hope you guys enjoyed it! I shuffled the posting schedule a bit, because I realized I didn't want to post the last two chapters together, but yeah, all is well otherwise :)


	6. Chapter 6

_The sea roared. The violent wind whipped their faces with rain and brine, and the waves pummeled the deck with unceasing determination, knocking those who were careless for but a second off their feet, and threatening to sweep what cargo they'd left up here overboard any moment._

“ _Secure the trysail!” the Captain shouted, his voice barely heard over the raging of the thunderstorm, “overhaul! Up you go, lads!”_

_They were not going to last long like this, he knew, and even if land were anywhere nearby, they had a greater chance of splitting against stray cliffs than they had of finding harbor. And if, by some divine luck, they managed to survive this, sooner or later, he would have to admit to his crew that they had been, indeed, lost for quite a while._

_His ship was complaining, wood wailing and the old mast threatening to snap before long, and his helmsman was yelling at him for orders, directions, anything, but the Captain had ceased to listen._ Ahead _was his direction, the horizon his finish line._

_Time had slowed, and he took a step forward, and then another, the mayhem around him forgotten, all sounds drowned out by the words he'd heard, haunting him._

“ _Where the hell are you going?” his First Mate shouted into his face, but the Captain moved past him, down the slippery stairs from the quarterdeck, walking past his panicked crewmen with a steadiness his feet had learned with years of storms much worse than this one. The sounds of the chaos had been drowned out by the unceasing whispering in his head, and he only had eyes for the bowsprit, swaying and jumping violently up and down with each attacking wave, but still, pointing_ ahead. Ahead.

“ _Thorin, what the seven hells are you doing?!” his First Mate caught up with him, struggling to keep upright, and almost knocking them both off their feet as a result when he grabbed at the Captain's arm._

“ _Can't you hear it, Dwalin?” he murmured, slipping out of his grasp with ease, closing the remaining distance between them and the forecastle in few sure steps, grabbing the nearest rope and hauling himself onto the railing._

“ _Can't you see it?!”_

“ _See_ what, _Thorin?! Get down from there! We're going to keel over if we don't go with the wind! We have to change course!”_

“ _No! We can't, not now!” the Captain shouted, shielding his eyes against the elements and straining to see, “there it is, on the horizon! We're close, I know it!”_

“ _Close to_ what _?! Our blasted death!”_

“ _No!” he cried victoriously, the shapes on the horizon finally becoming recognizable, the words in his head gaining meaning at last, laughter bubbling up in his throat, as insane and untamed as the sea itself, “it's there! The Lonely Island!”_

-

 

He wakes up to the gentle rolling of waves and the chatter of seagulls overhead, and the scent of the sea and the warmth of the sun put him at ease, even though in his core he still shakes from the dream. He opens his eyes and immediately shields them lazily against the sunlight, grunting and searching blindly with his other hand for his flask. It rests half-buried in the sand, no doubt the boys' work, and the hollow splashing inside indicates he's lost track of how much he's drunk again.

But speaking of the boys...

“Fili?” he calls, “Kili, lads, where are you?”

But the beach is deserted, save for the birds picking out weeds from the piles of driftwood, and he scrambles to his feet, dizzy and somewhat disoriented still, calling out the names of his nephews once more, to no avail.

“Blasted kids,” he mutters, pacing down the span of the beach to the old pier, their favorite hiding place, especially now that he's 'officially' made it theirs by carving their initials into one of the logs, “Fili, Kili, where are you hiding, huh? Come on, it's almost time for supper, your mother will be _so_ cross if I don't get you back home in time!”

Nothing. The wind picks up, and the sea hisses at him, and despite himself, he feels a chill dancing up his spine. He looks back up at the house – could they have returned on their own already?

He hears the distant barking of a dog then, all the way from the other side of the beach, by the jagged cliffs, and a part of him knows, the part that makes him break off into a run before he can even really realize what's going on. _But Uncle, what if there are really pretty seashells there? You'll let us climb there when we're older, then?_

“Fili! Kili!”

“ _Uncle!_ ”

It's faint and desperate, and unmistakably Kili, and Thorin's heart pounds, and he speeds up, damp sand making every step an ordeal.

Finally, he sees them, two tiny figures against the black of the cliffs, and the shepherd's dog running around in circles, barking frantically, no doubt trying to help, but his owner is nowhere nearby.

“What happened?!” Thorin shouts, his own voice gaining a hysteric edge – Kili is safely on the beach between the rocks, but Fili has somehow managed to climb onto one of the larger rocks already submerged into the sea, and he clings onto it, clearly paralyzed by fear.

“Uncle, Fili's stuck!” the younger boy wails, running to Thorin with his arms outstretched, knees and hands muddy, his trousers soaked far too high for Dis to let Thorin off easily, “he tried to climb there but he hurt his foot! Is he going to fall?”

“Alright, alright now,” Thorin attempts to calm him down, heaving him up in his arms and calling to his older nephew, “are you injured? What did I tell you about the blasted cliffs?!”

“It's my ankle,” Fili whimpers, “it really hurts!”

“Oh, I swear to god – alright,” Thorin curses, setting Kili down, “you stay here, stay put, do you understand? I'm going after your brother. Don't move!”

The boy sniffs and nods, his chin wobbling, and Thorin ruffles his hair briefly and roughly, before setting off after Fili.

“Just hold on tight, lad!” he calls, “hold on, I'm coming!”

The rocks are slippery under the soles of his boots, and he can only guess at how Fili had managed to find his way from one to the other, all the way to the tallest one. He is so tiny up there at the top, golden curls bobbing as he turns his head this way or that, small hands clutching onto the protrusions. It shouldn't be difficult for him to climb back down where he came from, in theory, but even Thorin knows nothing is ever so simple in a child's mind.

“Alright, hold on,” he attempts not to sound too desperate, “I'm almost there.”

“Uncle, hurry, please,” his nephew keens, the sound of his voice breaking rending at Thorin's heart, especially when coupled with the little one beginning to cry back on the shore.

“Alright, alright, easy, I'm almost there,” he huffs, selecting his path carefully – slipping and falling doesn't pose a bigger risk than a couple of bruises and scrapes for him, but it's still an unpleasant thing to even imagine.

The sea does look so much more violent here, the waves breaking against the black stone as if battling with it. _Don't let them out of your sight, Thorin. Don't let them wander off. Don't let them into the water._

_Don't let them near the cliffs._

His hand slips on the uneven surface, scraping against it, and he swears under his breath, and Fili gasps.

“I'm fine, I'm alright, I've got you,” Thorin grunts, and indeed, he's almost reached the boy, sprawled flat against the rock as if he's trying to embrace it, but clearly exhausted, his eyes full of the simplest of fears – the fear of falling.

“Alright, here we go, you're going to give me your – _gah!_ ”

His boot slips as well, and he hits his knee hard, and Fili yelps, trying to turn his head to see him better, but losing balance himself, scrabbling for purchase frantically as his feet lose solid ground.

“Easy, easy, hold on!” Thorin urges him, “don't move, alright? Don't move. I've got you.”

The boy nods furiously, pressing his cheek against the rock, tinny fingers digging into it. It's not a long fall, Thorin estimates, not for him, not for either of them, even if the worst comes to worst...

“See, there we go, I'm here,” he sighs, keeping his voice as level as possible – the truth is, he can't reach the boy yet, the makeshift bridge of jagged angles and treacherous dents he'd just crossed about as far as he can go. He doesn't have a clue how the kid managed to get all the way up there, but he won't be able to follow him, that much is certain.

He presses himself against the cool, sharp stone, and reaches up, willing some gentleness in his words: “I'm here. Look at me, boy. You're going to have to trust me, and give me your hand, alright? Look at me.”

Fili turns his head just enough so that he can shoot him a glance, eyes large and terribly afraid, before he shuts them tight again and whimpers like a cornered animal, knuckles white with the effort of holding on.

“Alright now, Fili, it's not far,” Thorin speaks to him softly, all the while trying to find better footing himself, “you'll just try to climb back down a little bit, and I'll catch your hand and it'll be just fine, I promise.”

“No, Uncle, I can't, I can't...”

“Of course you can, there's nothing to it.”

“But my foot, it really hurts-”

“I know, I know, Fili, but I need you to trust me. Can you trust me? I'm right here, right below you, you just have to help me a little bit,” Thorin mutters word after word, only concentrating on keeping a solid stance, and sounding as calm as humanly possible.

“Come on, you can do this, sailor, I know you can,” he says firmly, “you're brave enough for this, aren't you? Come on.”

“I'm scared, Uncle...” the boy whines, daring to look below for a second, and then shutting his eyes tight once more, refusing to move an inch.

“I know, I know you are, but that's fine, it's alright to be scared,” Thorin is steadily running out of options, “just come on, climb down to me, we can do this together. Come now, just one foot after another. Come on now.”

“You'll catch me?”

The seagulls are so loud, it's like they're laughing at him, and back on the beach, the dog is still barking, and little Kili sits on the sand a miserable heap hiccuping with sobs.

“Of course I'll catch you, I promise. Now let's go. Just a little bit, just try shuffling down. I'm here.”

“Alright...” the boy heaves a shuddering breath and moves, ever so slowly, his shoe wriggling tentatively to find a spot lower down to step on...

Thorin sees his bruised ankle far too late, the blood soaking the white sock, the sensible little shoe half unlaced, _oversights, oversights, she'll have your head for this..._

“Uncle, I'm-”

“No, wait, wait, Fili, stay put, stay-”

“ _Ahh!_ ”

“ _Fili!_ ”

The sea roars, and the seagulls cackle overhead, and it's not a deep fall, not deep at all, but there are rocks underwater, and far too little time.

-

 

He watches the new child's pale face sometimes and sees his own nephews in it, Kili in the dark color of his hair and his playful innocence, Fili in his blue eyes, his quiet curiosity about everything. The same uneasy murmuring in his sleep.

 _Easy,_ he whispers to him, in the early hours of the morning when light has barely just begun sneaking in through the curtains, a dim bluish haze.

_Easy, boy. It's alright to be scared._

-

 

“And the Lonely Island was... what, exactly?”

“I _told you_ a hundred times before. Some details of this story, I cannot divulge. It's my crew – or those who are still alive. I cannot put them at risk.”

“At risk of _what?_ ” Bilbo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and staring at the jumble of notes he's managed to jot down so far, the words losing all meaning to him with endless repetition.

The ghost says nothing.

“Alright then, well maybe I should go and _find_ those of your crew who _are still alive,_ and see what _they_ have to add to the story.”

“You will do no such thing,” the Captain declares menacingly, stepping closer, the air in the room getting colder, the whole package that Bilbo has, frankly, long since learned to dismiss.

“I won't?” he teases, “I don't know, I think it might provide an... _interesting_ new point of view on the story, don't you?”

“No.”

Bilbo only deigns to engage him in a staring contest for so long, before he resigns and sighs, putting the entire ' _Lonely Island_ ' angle of the story in a big circle with a question-mark next to it.

“Fine, whatever you say,” he concedes, “ _someone_ will have to decide to tell the story _eventually,_ though.”

“We _will_ get there,” Thorin utters tersely, then motions him to continue, a blasé gesture of his hand, “write: The summer of 1872 marked the beginning of my first deployment, aboard the HMS Ironfoot...”

 

Autumn strikes in full, with its storms and freezing mornings, and the surface of the sea raging with waves, water currents like dark shapes of the bodies of great monsters swirling just underneath it all, and for the first time since they came here, Bilbo learns just how much different living by the sea can be, especially when one has only one's feet as a means of transport. Or when the roof still creaks ominously all the time, despite the repairs, despite the Captain swearing by it, _I built it with my own hands, what exactly are you insinuating._

If he'd expected the winds to be any less violent because the house is nestled comfortably in its cove, surrounded by trees and cliffs, then, well, it goes to show how uneducated he really is in these matters – the monkey puzzle tree Bilbo had chopped down really _had_ served its purpose as an immediate protector against the weather, and Thorin likes to remind him of his folly often and obstinately, to which Bilbo merely sighs and does another round around the house to check if all the windows are latched.

But in that, at least, being on a first-name basis with a stubborn apparition proves to have its benefits – he helps around the house a great deal, in his own little ways, and Bilbo supposes that he should be worried about how _normal_ it seems to him now, but he's long since learned that it's better to let Captain Durin mind his own business in peace.

And so all the lamps are always safely blown out when Bilbo goes to bed, and the gas stove works much more reliably than he would have expected it to, and the porch door is always locked after dinner, and open in the morning.

But the rest, the more _hands-on_ problems, so to speak, those are still there for Bilbo to deal with. Frodo and him get caught in an unexpected downpour one time too many, and so he goes about procuring them some proper fishermen's oiled coats to fend off the elements, courtesy of Missus Bolger and her husband – Frodo is delighted by their bright yellow color, and by the tall, sensible boots Bilbo buys him, too, and for his part, Bilbo is just glad he doesn't risk the boy catching a cold every school day.

“You _could_ move into the city for the winter, you know,” Bell Gamgee suggests, packing Bilbo's haul of groceries, “I know that Tilda Bracegirdle has an entire spare _floor_ after that son of hers left, she does, and she would be more than happy to rent it to you for a very reasonable price...”

“I don't think that'll be necessary,” Bilbo sighs, a polite smile he's perfected for every occasion any kind of doubt is expressed about Oak Cottage, “but thank you.”

“If you say so,” she gazes at him thoughtfully, “but let me tell you, the weather can surprise you something dreadful around here. Just last year, it rained for a week straight before last harvest! And it should have started hailing weeks ago, by my estimate.”

“So the weather is unusually indulgent this year, is that what you're saying?” Bilbo chuckles, a distant burst of laughter from outside turning his head – indeed it is Frodo, alongside his friends, hurrying across the square to meet with Bilbo here.

“It really is,” Missus Gamgee nods sagely, “which probably means we'll get snowed in until April again.”

“Ah, my wife, the resident weather expert. It's not as bad as all that, Bilbo, I promise.”

Hamfast Gamgee enters the store shortly before his son and Frodo, and Bell pouts at him.

“You always say that, and then you refuse to shovel snow all winter.”

“Now _that_ , sadly, is true,” Hamfast admits, “but now, onto more exciting things. Finally, some post for you, Bilbo. A good thing you decided to make arrangements with the post office to leave your correspondence there, Mister Bracegirdle the postman is getting a bit old and making the trip all the way to your house...”

“Yes, I think so too. Thank you,” Bilbo manages not to show any worry, and ruffle Frodo's hair in the process of idly leafing through the handful of letters.

“What is it, Uncle?” the boy wants to know.

“Oh, nothing exciting, I'm afraid,” Bilbo smiles at him, stashing all of it quickly into his satchel, “how was your day?”

 

He successfully manages to forget about all of it until they are both safely home, and even then he refuses to open the letters until Frodo is tucked in bed and long asleep. He slashes the envelopes open only very reluctantly, sitting at the kitchen table and waiting for his water to boil, and of course, _this_ , Thorin deems an appropriate time to eavesdrop.

“How goes it with your father's property?”

“It is extremely rude to read over someone's shoulder, you know,” Bilbo shoos him off, hoping he might dissipate like steam over a pot.

“I do it all the time, I just never let you see me,” the Captain comments completely casually, enjoying Bilbo's indignant huff – and Bilbo _knows_ that he will enjoy it, but he huffs anyway.

“Impolite sprite,” he accuses him, and the Captain shrugs.

“Perhaps. I've nothing better to do. Now what type of property did you say your father owned? Was he a businessman?”

“He was – oh no. No no,” Bilbo catches on quick, wagging a finger at the ghost, “there are some parts of _my_ story that I don't want to share with _you_ just yet. How does that feel, hmm?”

Thorin puffs up, scowling when Bilbo imitates his silly pouting grimace, but obliging, moving away to stand by the window, staring out of it at who knows what – it's pitch black outside, has been for hours now, and all they can hear is the hiss and hum of the wind in the trees, a storm on its way.

“I should not have been so quick to dip into my savings,” Bilbo admits after a while, quietly, and the ghost makes no indication that he's listening, aside from inclining his head the tiniest bit – even that is comforting somehow.

“With all the repairs, I mean. It's not all that horrible, and we'll certainly last through the winter just fine, but...”

“But?”

“Perhaps I should look for work in town,” Bilbo sighs, resting his chin on his hand, elbow propped up on the table, “they might be looking for one more teacher at the school, who knows – the person teaching History and Grammar there is positively dreadful, or at least Frodo seems to think so...”

“Maybe,” Thorin looks on him with a distant curiosity in his eyes, “or maybe one can finish a book over the course of one winter.”

“You sound awfully optimistic,” Bilbo accuses him, “you know it's not an easy profit, right? Who's to say they'll even publish it? How long can that take? What if no one buys it, hmm, then what?”

The Captain now merely frowns.

“They will buy it,” he decides firmly, “they will like it. It is a good story.”

“In your head, maybe,” Bilbo counters sourly, “on paper, though? Mostly just a cluster of notes at this point, in case you haven't noticed. Once more, for the last time – if you want people to know your story, you have to be willing to _tell it._ ”

“Aren't you so wise,” Thorin grumbles, and leaves to go bang old shelves around in the attic – Bilbo glares at the spot he occupied just a second ago, then sighs in resignation, and finally heads for bed himself. He wishes there were some way to just skip the entirety of winter, and greet spring already, honestly.

 

But unfortunately, that's beyond the realm of anyone's abilities, and so he watches on with some worry as the days get shorter and colder, the nights darker still, and according to Bell Gamgee and, well, everyone else who has lived here for some time, they can expect snow any day now. It is, unfortunately, not at all like the city, where one might wake up to a fresh white duvet one early morning, snowflakes gently caressing the streets, more than anything else. No, here, the elements war constantly with one another, and it's as if the weather can't decide whether it wants to deliver rain, or snow, or something in between, sharp shards of ice sleeting and biting into their skin. It is with increasing worry that Bilbo lets Frodo go to school, or come back from it, on his own, and before long, he makes arrangements with the Gamgees for the boy to stay there, even overnight, if the conditions get too dangerous.

The waves assault the shore with increasing power, as if they want to swallow the cove whole, breaking against the cliffs angrily, taller than Bilbo has ever seen them, and though a reliable, albeit deceased, source claims that it's normal, he sometimes catches himself staring, intimidated, in awe of the sheer brute power of nature, and wondering just how frail they are against it, in their little house on a hill, with a leaking roof and faulty heating.

Those thoughts aren't in the least improved by the Captain telling him stories of navigating through just such conditions countless times, describing in terms Bilbo is only starting to learn to understand how a ship of wood and metal and fabric, manned by mere dozens, can win in a battle against the sea.

There is a gleam in his eyes when he tells those tales, unlike anything Bilbo has ever experienced from him, an excitement and liveliness, a longing to experience all of it all over again. Bilbo never knew him in that part of his life, never will, but it is obvious he misses it, it is obvious that _that_ is where his heart truly lay, and Bilbo can only wonder – wonder if he realizes it as well. If he truly experiences those memories, or if they are like detailed paintings he can choose to describe whenever he pleases. If he _knows_ that that life is long gone, or if he is still living it, still sailing his HMS Erebor and shouting orders at his men, somewhere in his imagination. Provided ghosts have that – it is all still very confusing to Bilbo, and he prefers not to think about it in too much detail.

But one thing he does know for sure – at least the story progresses. His days blur into one, taking care of Frodo, trying to wrestle with the heating, cooking, baking... Listening to the jumbled and often incredible tale of one sea captain and learning about a whole new area of interest he'd never bothered to educate himself on. Hearing words like _bowsprit,_ and _trysail,_ and _halliard_ _,_ and jotting them down, and being too embarrassed about not knowing what they mean – but the first time it comes up, Thorin explains it to him patiently, and then again, and then again after that. It is a strange jargon full of words that sound ridiculous at best sometimes, but Bilbo can see Thorin simply takes joy in being able to use them at all, being able to talk about something that once was so important to him.

 

In comparison with that, Bilbo's own story falls a bit short, and for his part, he's glad the Captain curbs his curiosity and doesn't ask again – or perhaps simply doesn't care. He _did_ meet the Sackville-Bagginses, although they didn't exactly meet _him,_ and has inquired about Frodo's past on several occasions already, but Bilbo finds he feels better if _he_ can pry about the _his_ story, not the other way around.

But then again, of course, on most days, he has precious little interaction with anyone else, and even though he's perfectly happy to spend afternoon after afternoon with just his books, he does enjoy _some_ contact, every now and then. And then, obviously, there are the days when he _requires_ it.

The sky is overcast from that very morning, heavy clouds of gunmetal gray swirling slowly like a thick broth brewing, and the air tastes of water. The quiet is ominous and anticipatory, the calls of seagulls not as loud or as ubiquitous as they usually are. All of it makes Bilbo's skin prickle unpleasantly, like a constant tingle on the back of his neck, an intangible worry.

“White caps,” the Captain reminds him after he comes back from town, pointing at the horizon, the speckles of foam forming atop wave after wave, and Bilbo remembers how he'd explained to him what that means, _you can't hear them on land, but violent winds are already tearing the sea apart,_ and a knot of nerves ties clenches in his gut, at the thought of his nephew alone in town.

“A tempest,” Thorin exhales, and there is a longing in his voice, an excitement Bilbo can't sympathize with – he hurries inside the house, and busies himself with baking, to take his mind off the incessant worrying.

The first roll of thunder comes far too early for Frodo to have gotten out of school, and Bilbo startles and leaves his work to go check virtually all the windows, as well as the doors, even though he knows someone else has done that for him already – only to come back to the kitchen to find that someone hovering nonchalantly by the stove, the oven door open, and the smell of poppy-seed buns _almost_ burnt accompanying all that.

“I thought it was about time to switch this off,” the ghost comments, and Bilbo frowns at him.

“Thank you. Out of my way.”

But his resolve only lasts until the next thunder, like the guttural growl of a drum, and before long, rain starts pouring, a steadily speeding staccato on the roof – it gets darker outside, unnaturally so, the night yet far off but the clouds more than enough to obscure the sun, and Thorin lights the lamps for Bilbo, and notes: “Don't worry. It's much worse out there on the sea.”

“That's not very reassuring,” Bilbo grumbles, and watches him uneasily, standing by the window and gazing off to the far horizon as if he actually wishes he were there, facing the thunderstorm head-on.

“I just hope Frodo is alright,” he sighs, and the ghost doesn't respond to that – when next Bilbo looks to the window, he is no longer standing there.

“Oh, typical,” Bilbo shakes his head, and continues talking, mostly because he knows Thorin can hear him, but also because it helps to take his mind off the elements preparing to tear the house apart, “how very accommodating of you. I _did_ come here to be alone more often, but that doesn't mean – what _is_ going on with the lights?” he squeaks, his voice a tad more high-pitched than he'd fancy, when the lamps flicker with the next roll of thunder, the rain bearing down harder on them.

The stove sputters and threatens to smother itself, too, and Bilbo suddenly feels very agitated in the cramped kitchen.

“Look, I know you probably don't much care either way, but I prefer to spend my days _in the light_ , you know, so if you would be so kind as to keep them going at least? No?” he peeps when the house doesn't answer.

The lamps hiss and the flame flutters unsteadily, and Bilbo paces the kitchen nervously, trying to come up with something, some chore or activity to keep him busy. The laundry has all been folded, his pantry is overflowing with baked goods at this point, he's swept every room thoroughly, gardening is out of the question...

“Talk to me,” he says shakily when he first sees the crack of lightning cleave the sky in half, illuminating the true scope of the tall, puffed clouds for one brilliant second, “come on.”

 _What about?_ The moaning rafters whisper.

“Oh, anything,” Bilbo sighs, slumping on the bench by the table, feeling most secure in this, the smallest room in the entire house, “anything at all. It doesn't even have to – to pertain to your story, just... I don't like this. It's too quiet, and I'm, I'm...”

“Worried.”

The Captain reappears with yet another slap of thunder, louder and closer this time, and Bilbo suspects he must have timed it for more impact, but he doesn't particularly mind either way – at least he's not alone.

“Yes,” he admits in a tiny voice, “very worried.”

“Your boy will be alright,” Thorin offers, watching with a strange sort of intensity, that doesn't do very much at all for Bilbo's peace of mind.

“Yes, yes, I know, I just... I wish there were a way for me to _really_ know,” he sighs.

“Hmm,” Thorin comments, and goes to stand by the window, his hands folded behind his back – he is so close to Bilbo now, and yet he hears no breath, feels no warmth. Wonders, if he were to raise his hand and try to touch Thorin's arm, would he feel anything at all? Himself, _or_ the ghost?

“I still don't understand how a ship can survive... that,” Bilbo shudders, the storm probably directly above them now, raging and roaring, bending the trees and whipping the grass, wild shapes and sharp shadows.

“I told you already, you-”

“Yes, yes, _go with the wind,_ I remember,” Bilbo waves his hand fussily, “but still, it's just... wood, and sails, and a lot of rope, I imagine, and it all sounds so... flimsy. It's baffling.”

Thorin says nothing, merely scoffs almost kindly, granting him but a glance, but he indulges Bilbo anyway, and starts speaking, quietly and evenly, and his voice is about the most calming sound Bilbo can wish for right about now.

“It's anything but that,” he explains, with patience instead of anger at Bilbo's lack of knowledge, “a ship well steered slides through water like a hot knife cuts through butter. Every wave can be mounted and overcome, if the angle is right. Do you know what a rogue wave is?”

“No,” Bilbo murmurs, draping his coat tighter around his shoulders and leaning against the cold stone of the wall behind him.

“It can appear out of nowhere. Massive and unpredictable, and often surprises you from the side – and if it _hits you_ from the side, then, well, capsizing is almost a certainty. You have to go with the wind, and you have to face it head on, cut straight through, and hope an undercurrent doesn't get you.”

“That's a cheery thought,” Bilbo peeps, staring into his tea and imagining it's the surface of the sea, undisturbed by any storms.

“Those new metal ships have a more difficult time surviving it,” Thorin says with some disdain, “takes them too long to turn the right way. Not nimble enough.”

“ _Nimble,_ ” Bilbo repeats with a small smile, “now there's a word I haven't heard used about ships before.”

The ghost merely chuckles, and silence reigns for the longest time.

“The only boat I ever stepped foot on was my father's punt,” Bilbo mumbles, folding his arms on the table and resting his cheek on them, hoping to drown out at least some of the sounds from outside. “His brother and him loved fishing, and there was a lake close by the village – they weren't very good, but they'd spend hours there, arguing about carps and drinking my mother's cider. They'd come back with more stories than fish, I must say. This one time, before a storm as well, as I recall, I was little still, you see... They ran home, swearing that their boat had caught on fire – they were terrified out of their wits, my goodness, only when they went to check in the morning, it was fine. Full of water after the storm, of course, but fine. I suppose the rain must have put the fire out, if there ever was any.”

“Corposant,” the Captain murmurs.

“Excuse me?”

“Corpse light,” he offers another term that means nothing to Bilbo, “Saint Elmo's fire.”

“What is that?” Bilbo turns to look at him properly, feeling somewhat cozier now, thank goodness.

“Sometimes, before a very strong storm, your compass will stop working,” Thorin explains, using his particular knack for telling everything like it's already a novel, “the needle dances this way or that, no matter what you do, and navigation becomes impossible. And then you see it. Atop the mast, atop the railing, the length of the boom – the fire. Like lightning has struck your ship when you weren't looking, and it's now burning. Except everything is very quiet, and there is no smoke – just the light. Pale, green and blue, unlike anything you've ever seen, flickering there for a moment or an hour, until the first thunder rolls, and the rain starts falling.”

“But what is it?” Bilbo breathes, quite captivated.

“Elmo is the patron saint of sailors,” Thorin notes, “it's a warning from him, that a tempest is approaching. An omen.”

“An omen,” Bilbo repeats reverently.

“Aye.”

 

And they could spend evening after evening like that, with stories – the Captain is good at telling them, his voice deep and even, and Bilbo is good at listening, his role completely different from what he's used to. He moves from the darkness of the kitchen to the coziness of his bedroom at one point, feeling better by the table there, and jots down notes absentmindedly as Thorin speaks, only half there, like every roll of thunder is urging him to go outside, as far as the horizon stretches.

“I can't,” he says simply, confirming Bilbo's speculations, when he asks, “the garden, the beach, the cliffs... Never further. Never again.”

He sounds resigned, more than resentful, and Bilbo wants to ask more _where are you buried? How can you fiddle with the gas and make the books fall off shelves, and open oven doors?_ _How does your time fly?_ But his exhaustion is stronger than his curiosity, just this once.

Politely, the ghost takes his leave as Bilbo washes up and changes into his nightclothes, but, well... he can never _really_ leave, and on most days, the thought unsettles Bilbo if he dwells on it too long, but this time around, the windows whining under the incessant beating of wind and rain, the very foundations of the house shaking with each roll of thunder, he is glad of the company, or at least the illusion of it.

The last source of light, the lamp on Bilbo's nightstand, is gently blown out the second he burrows under his heavy duvet, and the house murmurs, _Goodnight._

“Thank you,” Bilbo exhales, and closes his eyes, hoping his nephew has done the same hours ago already, and that the thunder doesn't frighten him.

He sends out a silent prayer for him before sleep claims him, and dreams of sitting in his father's punt, only it isn't the lake surrounding him, but the sea itself, waves rising his over his head, tossing the boat about.

 _Go with the wind,_ a familiar voice reminds him, and though the sea in his dreams and outside his windows alike rages on, Bilbo sleeps soundly that night.

-

 

_It's alright to be afraid._

He watches over him that night, stands by the telescope and gazes out of the window, lightning giving him quite the show every now and then, and he can hear Bilbo's breathing just as clearly as the storm, if he so chooses.

Dís would play the harp whenever it was too rainy, she would sit by it and play for hours, played it when Thorin read the boys a bedtime story, played it when he took them out, played it by Fili's bedside when he slept a sleep no one was able to say for sure he would wake up from, in hopes of getting through to him, the familiar melodies bringing him back around. He can hear them still, the melodies. If he so chooses.

He can hear the footsteps of people who have not set foot in this house in years, he can hear the laughter of his nephews and the quiet singing of his housekeeper, and it's difficult to tell them apart – Bilbo's quiet humming when he bakes from Dís' own, the voice and laughter of Frodo, from those of Fili and Kili.

Time barely exists for him as it is, but for Bilbo, he tries.

Bilbo reminds him, with his regular little rituals like clockwork, get dressed, eat, off with the boy to school, garden, bake, eat, eat, read stories, listen to Thorin's own... Reminds him that there is such a thing as day and night, dawn and dusk, the passage of time. Fills the empty spaces Thorin can't reach, no mater how much time he spends feeling the walls, every dent and protrusion and hollow nook; unclutters those that Thorin hasn't bothered to touch in ages.

And so, for his benefit, Thorin tries.

Watches over him. Doesn't tell him that he can only fiddle with the lights or the stove so much before he feels himself fading, before he has to return to the walls and the strong beams of the roof, and listen to the quiet plucking of a harp until he feels strong enough again.

Tonight, with the crackling of lightning and the rolling of thunder, though, he feels exceptional. Feels the stone and wood of the walls, tense with energy, and stands there all night, all night long, fingertips hovering just above the surface of his brass telescope, and behind him, Bilbo sleeps peacefully, the quiet, even in and out, in and out of his breathing a point of calm among all the noises Thorin listens to.

 

In the morning, the sky has not cleared, the threat of the storm remains, as if a wild creature spent the whole night clawing at the rainclouds, tearing them into ragged strips, and Bilbo expresses some concern over that, tugging absentmindedly at the loose threads of his sweater, pale against his wrists, equally pale fingers clutching around a mug, delicate china, the dark swirl of tea, the seashells the boy had collected doused in it when Thorin sees it fit to inform him that it's not going to rain again, not today, and inevitably ends up startling him.

“Apologies,” Thorin tells him, but really wants to say, _I wish you knew. I wish you were able to tell I'm there. I am as much a part of this house as that bench you're sitting on, and that table you're mopping up._

_Don't forget that._

_Don't forget me._

 

Time barely exists when Bilbo is not around to remind him. Day blurs into night, dawn to dusk, voices into one another, and Thorin doesn't enjoy that. He stands on the veranda, and in the sea and the sky, he can observe the whole span of his life, years, decades, the wood of his ship, his home for the longest time, he can see the shape of it out there, just out of reach on the horizon, disappearing into the fog... He can see the island, he can see the house when it was nothing but a spot of dried grass – all that in one, a story told too fast, footnotes stripped of meaning.

 

...And then Bilbo comes back, the wood creaks, welcoming him, and he announces, _'Well, we're back'_ , for no one but Thorin to hear, and he sees the house as it really is once more, the endless dizzying spin of the images of the past comes to a stuttering halt, and Thorin knows again what _here_ and _now_ means.

 

But today, Thorin sees him fuss over the boy, glad he's alright, feeding him properly and promising he'll never let him stay away from home overnight again (though in Thorin's opinion, he's anything but unhappy about that), and recognizes something is different.

He's made his promise though, and he keeps away until putting the boy to bed signifies _night_ , and even then, he merely waits. Watches the slumped frame of Bilbo's shoulders as he sits on the bed – _Thorin's_ bed – and waits.

“Thorin.”

Bilbo's voice is terse, as if he is angry with him, but Thorin can't remember what it is he did _this time._

“Yes.”

“The post came again.”

“Oh. Anything for me?”

He jokes like this often these days, because Bilbo will laugh shortly, like he's surprised at himself for even doing so, and accuse Thorin of awful black humor, which Thorin can't really disagree with... But this time, no laughter.

“Yes, actually.”

“Excuse me?”

“A letter came for you,” Bilbo says quietly, and how is Thorin only noticing the envelope in his hands now?

“That's not possible,” he counters, and the plucking of the harp is louder, and a child laughs downstairs, a child that isn't really there, he knows, but holds his attention nevertheless.

“Well, apparently it is,” Bilbo sighs, offering him the envelope, his face still half turned away, “it's from your sister.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are - definitely the longest chapter of the bunch, but I got a little bit carried away with the backstory. This and the next chapter more or less reveal what happened to Dis and the boys, and yeah, you guys, seeing St Elmo's Fire is still one of the most vivid memories of my entire life, so I knew I had to incorporate it somehow, if even as a story. Hope you enjoyed this chapter! :)


	7. Chapter 7

“Your sister doesn't know you're dead?!”

“It's not as simple as all that...”

“Oh, I've got time! Explain!” Bilbo springs from the bed, taking to pacing the room, the envelope forgotten on the mattress.

“It's none of your-”

“Oh, we are _long past_ 'none of your business', don't you think?!” Bilbo exclaims – Thorin glares all defensive, but at least he hasn't yet disappeared to sulk somewhere in the rafters. “What happened?” Bilbo asks firmly, “with your nephews? Is that why she left and never came back? A falling out?”

“That's putting it mildly,” the Captain scoffs, and when met with nothing but Bilbo's inquisitively arched eyebrow and crossed arms, he groans, turning away and standing by the window, his favorite spot for being all broody.

“She moved to France,” he mumbles, almost unintelligibly, and Bilbo is actually surprised he's going to get to hear the story, at long last. Dear god.

“ _After..._ the incident,” Thorin continues reluctantly at best, “she had every right to be angry with me, and I... I went on to my deployment overseas, like I told you, and we simply... never got back in touch, before I... well.”

“Well,” Bilbo repeats dryly, “care to explain _what exactly_ the incident was, that it made your sister refuse to ever see you again?”

“I don't,” Thorin retorts curtly, “care to explain, that is. It's in the past, all of it.”

“And _yet,_ ” Bilbo grabs the envelope, hurrying to stand by the Captain's side, “it's coming back around to bite. You know what...?”

Bilbo tears the envelope open without any regard for decorum, and Thorin actually flinches, but merely stands stock still, not a word.

“ _Dear Thorin,_ ” Bilbo reads the very lovely, neat handwriting, “oh my goodness, I can't believe you... _Dear Thorin. You and I both know it has been quite a while – but if either of us is capable of swallowing our pride, I know now it's going to have to be me. Years, it's taken us. But it is going to be Christmas soon, and the boys will not stop talking about you. It was actually Fili who convinced me to write to you, and I feel there's some irony in that. In their eyes at least, there never existed anything that needed forgiving, you know that –_ Alright, will you just _tell me_ what happened, or do I have to write to your sister myself to find out?”

“No one's writing to anybody,” the Captain growls.

“With the obvious exception of your sister. And she... yes, _would very much like to hear from you again_ _..._ Oh, Thorin, this is awful. Just horrible. How can she _not know_ that you... died?”

Thorin inhales, long and deep, as if preparing himself for some sort of terrible ordeal, then deigns to look at Bilbo at long last, an indescribable sadness in his eyes, so raw that it manages to stop Bilbo in his tracks, for a moment at least.

“It's not uncommon,” Thorin explains quietly, “so many sailors have been lost to the sea without anyone retrieving them.”

“But surely there's... you know? Some rules? About contacting the family in such an event?” Bilbo peeps, feeling a chill creeping up, the draft from the window and the news alike the culprits of that.

“There are rules, yes,” The Captain sighs, “many of them. They might have tried contacting her after I expired, I do not know. You see, I never quite submitted the address to her new home anywhere. I didn't think it important at the time. I didn't think I'd...”

Silence reigns, heavy and interrupted only by the wind howling outside, and Bilbo feels inexplicably out of his depth, really.

“Tell me what horrible thing happened between you, that you severed all ties with your own _family,_ ” he suggests, pleads with Thorin, who stands there immovable and stern, as if he's doing his best to imagine he's anywhere else but there.  
“Read the letter to me,” he says at last, nothing much more than a hoarse whisper.

“I – this is really something you should finish on your own...”

“Read the rest of the letter to me,” Thorin repeats, “please.”

“...As you wish,” Bilbo shrugs, unfolding the paper once more, stepping closer to the lamp to see better. “Where did I – oh, that's right. _...In their eyes at least, there never existed anything that needed forgiving, you know that. They would very much like to see you again some day, and I find myself taunted by the idea as well. I do miss the house. I've since bought a better harp, as you might imagine, but that doesn't mean that leaving that one behind doesn't sting sometimes. I don't know when this letter will reach you, if at all, but know that we have not forgotten you._

_Perhaps I should have written you earlier, years earlier,_ _though_ _the fault is on both sides, after all._ _But no matter. If ever you find yourself on dry land for more than a shore leave, do write back. The address is on the envelope, that's apparently required when one lives abroad. Paris is lovely this time of year, but then it is always lovely. Kili wonders if your travels might eventually take you to the shores of France, I always reply that I haven't the faintest idea. They are both older now, you might have trouble recognizing them – but no less curious. Fili has Sorbonne in his sights, while Kili cannot be persuaded to stay still for long – I might be discouraging him from a navy career soon, if I'm not careful, and I feel like you might be able to help with that._

_How are you? Did you ever find out what happened to Erebor? I think I would very much like to hear from you,_ _but come to think of it, I shall count myself lucky if this letter reaches you at all. But then again, I don't think you would leave the cottage behind, would you._

_Either way, in time or not, merry Christmas, your sister Dis.”_

 

This time around, the silence is aching, ringing in their ears – though they are the words of someone Bilbo doesn't know, never will, they still hurt, still strike close to his heart, and he feels immensely sorry for this woman attempting to reconnect with her brother, not knowing that her efforts are in vain. For the most part, anyway.

“Thorin-”

But he is alone in the room once more.

 

And continues being alone. He doesn't really have a surefire way of _making_ Thorin do anything, least of all appear whenever Bilbo would like him to – and so for the following couple of days, Oak Cottage is unpleasantly silent. Bilbo has gotten used to the routine of listening to the Captain's melodic voice and transcribing his words every day before going to sleep, he's gotten used to his complaining and his appearing out of nowhere even – without him, without his presence clearly announced, the house feels too big, too cold, too hostile.

Some of it is probably the weather's fault as well – snow does indeed come, slowly and gently at first, soft white specks like feathers peppering the ground and the treetops one morning, but much like everything else by the sea, it gains in ferocity eventually. Christmas dinner is had at the Gamgees' house, at their more than gracious invitation, and Bilbo and Frodo end up having to spend one more day there, it's snowing so relentlessly.

They come back to a near frozen house, the stone walls swift to cool and slow to warm back up again, and Bilbo struggles to light the stove and get the gas heaters going without the help of a sulking someone – he can't even remember why he felt bad about leaving the cottage for Christmas in the first place.

“Merry Christmas,” he wishes to the dark empty corners of his bedroom, and pointedly stares at the notes laying abandoned on the desk – no response, still, not a creak.

“If you're going to be this way, I might as well start researching on my own,” he announces the next day, baking exactly the shortbread that the Captain has always helped out with by making the oven burn at exactly the right temperature – this time around, though, he doesn't lift a finger, figuratively speaking, and the biscuits come out far too burned for Bilbo's tastes, though Frodo seems happy to just chomp down on them, not a care in the world.

“I'm writing a Professor friend of mine in London,” Bilbo mumbles, keeping one eye on the boy in the garden, far too excited about all this snow to care about his sodden shoes and trousers, while Bilbo himself sits at the large table in the living room, mug of steaming tea ready, wearing at least one sweater more than necessary.

“He'd spent some time in Her Majesty's Navy before he joined my University in London. Teaches geography now, I believe. He might know something about your lost ship.”

_His name?_

“Oh, it speaks,” Bilbo chuckles, though the truth is hearing the voice again, quiet but seemingly _everywhere,_ has managed to give him quite the scare – but it wouldn't be Thorin otherwise, now, would it.

“I'm not telling you, sulking like that,” Bilbo accuses him, and a sudden gust of wind out of nowhere makes the wood of the house whine and complain.

“Don't be a child,” Bilbo tut-tuts absentmindedly, but receives no response.

 

This might go on for quite a while, if it weren't for that fateful week – in hindsight, Bilbo should have anticipated that letting a child quite unused to  _any_ weather harsher than the occasional London rainy day play outside for prolonged periods of time, especially when that playing included snowball fights with his friends, would only spell trouble.

Frodo complains about a stuffy nose and a 'scratchy' throat one morning, and coughs like his lungs have been set on fire by the most vile of infections the next, and, certainly not for the first time but perhaps with the most intensity, Bilbo feels _uncomfortably_ far away from anything resembling civilization – an apothecary  just around the block that he could just stop by for some throat lozenges and a cough remedy, a doctor that he might simply call upon whenever he pleased...

Well, there is  _one_ doctor he knows of, isn't there, but he can't exactly make the trek to Dale and leave Frodo, pale as a sheet and sweating through nightshirt after nightshirt, alone, now can he. A grocery run is in order as well, unless they fancy surviving off jams and pickled vegetables and biscuits for the foreseeable future, but with his boy burning up and sleeping through most of the day, Bilbo is very much helpless, and very much stranded here. All he can do is make him tea after tea, force him gently to drink it, and change the cold cloths on his forehead in unnervingly short intervals.

He could use the company, during his sleepless nights and his restless wandering, nothing much to do in the house beyond cleaning up for the hundredth time and checking the contents of their pantry, but Captain Durin remains silent, unhelpfully and infuriatingly silent.

On the fourth or fifth day (it's become difficult to keep track, he must admit), just when he's all but had enough, all but decided to risk it and leave Frodo on his own, just to get to the town as fast as possible and carry the old Doctor Brown here on his back if necessary, a miracle occurs.  During his daily reading pause, h e hears the faint barking of a dog, the first proper sound to have pierced the unsettling white silence of the winter's grasp on the cottage, and he springs out of his armchair with a speed quite unlike him, only pausing to grab the nearest sweater to hastily throw on, before he's  dashing  out the front door, hoping that the dog is indeed who he hopes it is.

And yes, there they are, the unmistakable tall and broad figure of Beorn the shepherd and his dog trotting by his side, nothing but two black dots against the endless pristine brightness of the snow-covered hillock heaving up behind the house. Bilbo has never been happier to see anyone in his life, and he calls out to them, his own voice sounding unnaturally loud to his own ears, since he hasn't exactly been overusing it lately, and he waves his arms like a madman, trying his very best to capture Beorn's attention.

But it seems like the man has been heading towards the house all along – he takes his time, but fares much better in the dire conditions, a thick wool-lined leather coat and sensible, heavy boots protecting him against the w eather , his cheeks even redder than usual, a frown on his face, no doubt on account of this freezing weather they've been having. Despite all that, he seems as elated to see Bilbo as Bilbo is to see him, and pats his shoulder powerfully, almost making him stagger.

“Master Baggins!” he booms, his breath immediately freezing into little clouds, “it's good to see you're alright! Folk in town were beginning to worry. Missus Gamgee has been saving her best batch of honey for you, or so she tells me...”

“Yes, yes, that's very kind of her, but it's my boy,” Bilbo explains breathlessly, only glad the man doesn't seem to protest following him back inside the house.

“What about your boy?” Beorn asks, stomping the snow off his boots and ordering Ursa the dog to stay outside, despite Bilbo's protests.

“He's very sick. High fever and a cough, and I am too worried about him to just leave his side, but I am afraid there's not much more I can do for him – he needs a doctor.”

“Poor kit,” Beorn shakes his head, “I'll go fetch the doctor for you.”

“You'd – you would do that?” Bilbo stammers, forgetting his hospitality in all his rush, leaving the man to hover in the foyer, not even inviting him in for a cuppa.

“Of course. Give me some time, I'll be right back with him-”

“Oh, I – don't you... I mean, stay. Have a cup of tea, I'm sorry-”

“It's alright,” Beorn smiles at him, “your boy's health comes first.”

And before Bilbo can say two words, he's off again, marching towards Dale at an impressive speed – it might take an hour or a whole afternoon, it's difficult to tell. It gets dark so fast, and Bilbo has already come to terms with Beorn doing his best, but the doctor refusing to come, or deciding to come tomorrow, if at all, but just as the sun has started sinking below the line of the horizon, like a bucket of brillian t purples  and orange spilled into the sea, he hears the crunching of snow once more, and... is that a horse whinnying?

Bilbo dusts off his flour-covered hands and hurries to go see, and indeed, it is Beorn once more, this time steering the Gamgees' pony and wagon, the old Doctor Brown a right bundle of blankets on the coach-box next to him.

But the second they get some tea into him and let him warm up by the fire, he is more than eager to take a look at Frodo – the visit barely rouses the boy, a sickly sheen of sweat covering his face, his eyes darting this way and that behind closed lids, and Doctor Brown takes his delicate wrist in his soft aged hands, and frowns, frowns ceaselessly.

“He is, of course, vaccinated,” he grumbles, sitting at the edge of the boy's bed, rummaging through his large bag.

“He is,” Bilbo sighs – frankly, he's a bit surprised the doctor even believes in all this medical advancement, the image of his house filled with all sorts of peculiar herbs and jars still very clear in his memory.

“Very well, very well... Now, where was it, where did I put it – oh, but of course! I already gave it to you!”

“Gave it to me – you've given me nothing yet, Doctor,” Bilbo squints, and Beorn by the door shakes his head, crossing his arms.

“Yes, yes, I have! The drops, remember, the remedy for your boy!”

“I don't...” Bilbo mumbles, but then he remembers all of a sudden. “Oh, the, uh, the little vial you gave me for free? When I first came to visit you?”

“Yes, yes!” the doctor exclaims, his eyes gleaming happily, “do you still have it?”

I t is swiftly procured from the desk drawer Bilbo had stashed it into without a second thought when he first got it, and the doctor uncorks it with a distinctly pleased grimace, smelling its contents with a happy sigh.

“Of course, of course,” he mutters happily to himself, “just add a bit of cinnamon, yes, that was a good idea...”

“...Doctor?” Bilbo tries getting through to him, “will it work? What do I do with it?”

“Of course it'll work!” the old man declares so loudly Frodo stirs in his distressed sleep, writhing around on the bed and whimpering lightly.

“Obviously it'll work,” the doctor repeats, quieter now, “fifteen drops on a spoon, swallowed three times a day, for as long as it takes. I have some cough drops, too, see, here, take them, take them all.”

“You are most gracious,” Bilbo exhales in relief, “how much do I owe you?”

“ _Owe_ me?” the old man laughs in pure delight, “you owe me nothing at all! Perhaps one more cup of tea.”

“Oh, but I must pay you!” Bilbo protests, “you've come all this way!”

“Or perhaps,” Beorn chimes in, lingering by the door and pointing intently towards the window now, snow beginning to fall thickly once again, “you might let the good Doctor stay overnight.”

“Of course, yes, you're right,” Bilbo gasps, standing up to scrutinize the rapidly worsening weather outside, “I do have two spare beds, after all. I just don't think I'll find anywhere to hide the poor pony, though...”

“No need,” Beorn raises his hand, “I promised Master Gamgee I'd return Myrtle to him today, she is very much needed. And I have to go back to me sheep myself.”

“Not in this weather, surely...”

“Better now, before the blizzard _really_ comes,” the shepherd shrugs, “best be warned, I think Missus Gamgee has been planning to send her husband here with a battalion's worth of food ever since she first heard your boy was sick, so you might get a delivery of that first thing tomorrow. And a good thing, too, the doctor will have a ride home, isn't that right, doctor?”

“Hmm? Yes, yes, of course, lovely weather we're having this time of year...”

And with that, Bilbo has an overnight visitor for the first time since they came here. After Beorn manages to convince him that he he won't dissolve under a bit of snow, Bilbo lets him leave, albeit reluctantly, and goes about tending to the old doctor and Frodo alike. He manages to rouse the boy long enough to make him drink a bit of tea and swallow the prescribed remedy, which, fortunately, turns out to be rather sweet, and then feeds the doctor and himself a very late dinner indeed.

The man spends most of his time mumbling nonsense Bilbo can't hope to decipher, but he is pleasant company nonetheless – mostly because he provides  _some_ company at least. Very often, Bilbo looks over his shoulder and checks every corner for a third party eavesdropping, but Captain Durin is maintaining his distance still.

Up to a point, anyway.

The strong winds usher the snow to assault the house with unceasing ferocity, and every now and then, the lights flicker feebly, threatening to die out on them – but Doctor Brown accepts the bed in the tiny guest room happily enough. Before Bilbo leaves him to it, he switches off the gas heater, the small chamber more than warm enough now, thankfully, and remembers with some fondness Thorin doing that for him once upon a time, and reminding him to do it ever since.

He almost wishes he knew how to call on him, apologize for prying too much, indulge his stubborn ways, because it is precisely those stubborn ways that have been keeping him pleasantly occupied for these past months... And as if the Captain can read his mind (or, perhaps, because he longs for the company as well, he likes to think), Bilbo finds him standing by Frodo's bedside when he goes to check on the boy the last thing before catching some sleep himself.

The sight startles him, because Thorin is... well, barely there. Like the shadows one sees after staring into the sun for too long, fading around the edges, shimmering like pale mist over a meadow first thing in the morning. But his face, that is clear enough to see, and he is... Bilbo is astonished, lingering in the door, glad he hasn't been noticed (or acknowledged) yet – Thorin gazes down at the boy with such tenderness, such quiet adoration, and worry at the same time, that Bilbo wonders if there's a part of him he's been missing all this time.

It's not difficult to connect the dots and realize that Frodo must surely remind him of his own nephews, and Bilbo has been thinking about them a lot lately – two boys he has never known, and never will, who once used to spend their time here, playing with their Uncle, perhaps performing the same antics in the wild garden that Frodo and his new friends now do... Up to the point that... whatever happened, happened, and they disappeared along with their mother, never to come back, leaving behind nothing but a bunch of old toys.

Bilbo didn't dare ask the doctor about them again, partially because he wasn't sure he'd get any sort of coherent answer out of him, but still, he wonders. The picture of them and their mother rests in one of the drawers of his desk in his bedroom, along with the letter, and every time Bilbo so much as glances at either, the air in the room gets a bit colder.

“He will be alright.”

Hearing Thorin's voice again after the interlude of days upon days of stilted silence is... not exactly unpleasant.

“I hope so,” Bilbo murmurs, stepping closer, to stand by the Captain's side, glad he seems to have decided to... solidify, for the lack of a better term, no longer looking like nothing more than a fleeting reflection of himself.

The boy stirs in his sleep, small fists clenching, and Bilbo hears a shuddering sigh, full of concern, escape Thorin – he decides not to comment, simply exhales wearily, brushing sweat-drenched strands of hair from Frodo's forehead, and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“He had pneumonia when he was very little, almost a toddler still,” he confesses, without any particular goal, simply to talk now that Thorin is here, “lay in high fevers for weeks, Prim... my cousin couldn't get him to eat anything, nothing worked to bring the temperature down. They thought he was going to die. By some miracle, he didn't.” Bilbo swallows thickly. “But he's never been the healthiest child. Never grew up properly... strong, you know? After his parents... after they died, he stopped talking altogether, and wouldn't eat, wouldn't smile, and I thought – I thought the sea air would be healthy for him. I didn't... I should have been smarter.”

“He's going to be alright,” Thorin repeats, with more conviction now, and Bilbo hopes with all his might he were able to... sense him, know that he is really there, standing so close beside him, and not just another comfort he is only imagining.

“He is happy here,” Thorin claims, and Bilbo does look at him properly then, the determination in his voice surprising to say the least.

“...I hope so,” he repeats, once again.

“I know it,” the Captain nods, and when Bilbo frowns at him inquisitively, he says no more, simply takes one step back from the bed, as if giving them some space.

Bilbo opens his mouth to say something, inexplicably touched by the meaning behind Thorin's words, but finds that he isn't quite able to. He swallows his unfounded gratitude and brushes his thumb across Frodo's cheek gently, dabbing at his forehead and his neck with a soaked cloth for the last time, before blowing out the lamp on the bedside table and tucking the boy in.

Come to think of it, he doesn't even expect Thorin to linger, but that doesn't mean he isn't glad to find him there still, and even let him follow him to the bedroom.

“Fili was about his age when it happened. Maybe a bit older.”

Bilbo freezes halfway to his wardrobe, turning around only very slowly, half afraid that Thorin will have changed his mind by the time he looks at him.

“Frodo is eleven,” he offers a bit pointlessly.

“Older then,” Thorin nods, turning to gaze out of the window, clasping his hands behind his back, “twelve or thirteen, I don't...”

“It doesn't matter,” Bilbo hurries to assure him, coming to stand by his side, and the Captain glances at him with something akin to gratitude in his eyes.

“One day, I took them to the beach,” he begins, each word an ordeal, “and I... fell asleep, and by the time I woke up, they were nowhere in sight. Turns out they'd decided to explore the cliffs. Fili decided to climb up there, and I suppose my only luck was that Kili was too little to follow him. By the time I heard him calling for me, Fili had already climbed up to the highest rock, and couldn't get back down by himself. He'd injured his foot, and I told him to stay still, and I tried getting to him, but everything was far too slippery...”

“What happened?” Bilbo peeps, and Thorin's jaw clenches, as if he is reliving that day far too vividly.

“He slipped, fell. Hit his – his head on a rock, before almost drowning in the sea. I jumped after him, of course, but...”

“Thorin,” Bilbo exhales shakily, reaching out to touch his hand in a gesture of comfort, realizing far too late how pointless that would be, jerking back awkwardly.

“I carried him home – had to carry both of them. Kili was only six, and he couldn't stop crying. My sister... We didn't know if he was going to wake up at all.”

_How could you?! How could you have let them out of your sight?! You promised you wouldn't drink around them! You swore you wouldn't let them anywhere near the cliffs!_

Bilbo shudders – it's almost as if he can see her for just a second, rage and tears both in her eyes, shouting at her brother while her eldest lay pale and motionless in the bed nearby, a nasty bruise on his forehead...

“We called on the doctor,” Thorin continues, his voice quiet, subdued, as if the shame has never really gone away, “he gave us... Gave us a salve or two, said to keep watch by his bed, said... it was a matter of time, and luck, nothing else. Even gave us some sort of tea for Kili – he just presumed he'd have trouble sleeping. He wasn't the only one, of course.”

“Your sister,” Bilbo guesses, and Thorin nods.

“She was livid, and grief-stricken. She'd lost her husband only a couple years prior, and she was... terrified. And I was hardly the best of company. We quarreled ceaselessly, instead of... supporting one another.”

“Oh my,” Bilbo murmurs, staring out of the window, blinking away the sudden daze.

“After Fili woke up, she packed the three of them up and left, never to come back,” the Captain says calmly, almost as if anticipating Bilbo's reaction.

“But you – it wasn't _all_ your fault, surely?” he tries, and Thorin shakes his head with a flicker of a somber smile.

“She had every right to be angry with me. I had been... I'd lost my ship, and I wasn't... exactly myself. She would try to talk some sense into me, and always meant for the best, but I wouldn't listen.”

Bilbo blinks once, twice, unsure what he should say. It isn't difficult, imagining the Captain disagreeing with his sister, and hurting her with his inconsideration enough so that she decided to leave, but still...

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs at last, “that must have been very difficult.”

Thorin gazes at him pensively, as if trying to determine whether he really means those words, but then he shrugs, inhaling deeply, letting out a long sigh that might very well be relief, for finally having told this story that, Bilbo suspects, few other people know.

“Now you understand why they all think I took my own life,” Thorin says then, casually, “I certainly had all the reason to.”

“Oh, but-” Bilbo gasps, but faced with Thorin's quirked eyebrow, he deflates.

They stand in silence for a moment, save for the arguing of the elements outside, and Bilbo can't help but mull over the tragedy of it all. Can't help but think that he's arrived here a couple of years too late. Yes, because Thorin would adore him so if they knew each other back then. Please.

“She's all but forgiven you now,” he points out softly, thinking of the letter folded in a drawer nearby, and Thorin chuckles wryly.

“And what good is that anymore?” he replies, “I can hardly spend a lovely afternoon chatting with her about it in my current state, now can I?”

“Why not?” Bilbo shrugs, “I'm sure she'd get used to you eventually. I did.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Thorin chortles, “she would have no reservations about smacking me over the head, and you can imagine how well that would go.”

“You could use a good smack over the head, though,” Bilbo notes innocently, and only grins when the Captain groans, equal parts exasperation and a warning.

“I still think I should write to her,” he says more seriously, “if only to tell her about your... demise. She deserves to know, don't you think?”

Thorin doesn't respond, merely continues glaring out of the window, eyes distant and, Bilbo thinks, sad without him realizing it, lost in thought.

“Thorin?”

“Yes, yes, alright, do as you please,” the Captain grumbles, waving his hand fussily, “let us just... not mention this in the book.”

“As you wish,” Bilbo smiles, and then, after a moment of silence, warmer now, a smirk lingering on Thorin's lips, one that might as well have been forgotten there without noticing, he adds, “if your sister is anything like I imagine her, I think she'd find this... _you,_ rather exciting.”

“I hardly think so,” Thorin grumbles, moving to stare at the mess of Bilbo's notes on the desk, fingertips hovering, as if he'd like to sift through the papers, but can't.

“Oh, come now. Perhaps she'd be glad to find out that she had the chance to talk to you still? Perhaps that's why you... lingered here in the first place? To make amends?”

“Make amends,” Thorin snorts sardonically, “that's not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because-!” Thorin exclaims, then inhales sharply, as if defending himself against some onslaught of emotion, “because... I can't. How could I. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know why I stayed, and I don't know why _you_ of all people are the only one who can see me. But she – how could I cause her such grief, all over again? How could I?”

“Thorin...”

“I am not _real,_ Bilbo. I am not supposed to _be here,_ not like this. I am just an echo, incapable of touching, of feeling, of _leaving this blasted house._ I'm not real.”

“Oh, but _Thorin,_ ” Bilbo says intently, stepping closer, his hands once again flying forth, reaching to touch before he can realize it's in vain, and the Captain watches with eyes wide, almost frightened.

Bilbo beckons him, turning his hand palm up, fingers fluttering lightly, an almost playful come hither gesture, and Thorin frowns darkly, but seems to be strangely captivated by the sight.

He raises his own hand tentatively, nearing Bilbo's ever so slowly, and Bilbo fights the instinct that tells him to close his eyes – no, he watches, and feels... nothing, when their hands are supposedly touching, nothing except a strange, gentle tingle and a cold, like dunking your hand underwater, or running it over soft blades of grass, and it doesn't last long enough for either of them to make up their mind about it. Did Bilbo feel anything at all, or was he just hoping he might?

“You are real enough to _me,_ ” he says resolutely nevertheless, curling his fingers inward – Thorin's hand jerks away, his gaze a disarming mixture of awe and uncertainty, and perhaps for the first time during the time of their unusual... _acquaintance,_ Bilbo thinks him rather endearing.

“As long as you're capable of meddling with my shortbread, you're tangible enough, believe me,” he adds somewhat teasingly, and after the Captain chuckles, uneasily, as if he himself didn't quite anticipate his own reaction, Bilbo wishes him a good night and lets him mull over his words, and this time, sleeps soundly for the first time since Frodo got sick, for the first time since winter started, perhaps, and dreams of spring.

 

-

 

_Dear M rs Durin,_

 

_my name is Bilbo Baggins, and I write to you from Oak Cottage in Dale. I've been renting this house since this summer, August of 1908, that is. Your letter took me by surprise, and I do so dislike being the bearer of tragic news, but the thought of you not knowing the truth is unbearable. Your brother, Captain Thorin Durin, is deceased. I do not know the exact circumstances of his death, but I have been informed that it happened several years ago – five, to be exact._

_Though I am not in the business of prying into private affairs, from the nature of your letter I understood that there was some unfinished business between you two, and I deeply regret that your brother is not here by my side to read your words._

_As a complete stranger, I don't feel entitled to saying any more, so please simply accept my deepest condolences for your loss, and feel free to write me back, should you desire to. I do not know if I will be of any help, but the option is there._

_Sincerely yours_

 

_Bilbo Baggins_

_January 23 rd, 1908, Oak Cottage, Dale_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeyy here we go! Nothing is very nice for either Dis or Thorin, but yeah, here we are :D


	8. Chapter 8

Winter passes them gently, as if it has long since decided to offer spring its place – the skies remain clear for longer than the blink of an eye in the morning, and the ground thaws, allowing the very first of the resilient seaside growth to sprout once more. The humid air smells of things breathing anew, of fresh dirt, and of course, of the sea – but it never ceases to amaze Bilbo how what once seemed like just one persistent scent to him, can change with the shifting weather.

When they'd first arrived here, at the apex of summer, it was sun-bleached driftwood, seaweed caught on rocks, almost pungent at times, the air dry and the breeze bringing little relief.

The colder it got, the less he could recognize the water, and instead felt the winter approaching, a freezing spike stinging in his lungs, promises of storms and mud and, eventually, snow.

But now, all he smells is _life_ – it reminds him of where he grew up, watching the plants slowly wake up, blooms uncurl and grass grow greener, the heady and yet fresh tingle of rejuvenation, the joy of new life everywhere you look. Before he knows it, the cliffs are covered with resilient little flowers, their yellows and purples and whites scattered like colorful beads everywhere he looks. The grass in the garden is threatening to become unmanageable if he doesn't do something about it, growing tall and thirsty, and warmth begins worming its way into every nook and cranny of the house, its old stone and weathered wood. Soon, winter alongside all its unpleasantness, the days they had to spend locked inside because the blizzards wouldn't let them out, Frodo's illness, firewood running short, all of it becomes nothing but a fading memory.

Frodo and him are both thrilled that school resumes regularly, the lad for the excitement of seeing his friends, Bilbo for the routine, and the glee he observes in his nephew's eyes – he is quiet still, always will be, and bruises like a peach, and spends more time silently watching and reading than talking, but Bilbo also sees that he smiles more, eats more and sleeps soundly on most nights, and there is an achievement in that.

As for Bilbo himself, he doesn't know exactly what he's been looking for here, but he seems to have found it nevertheless. Sometimes, it's in spending an entire afternoon gardening, sweat breaking on his brow and dirt catching behind his fingernails, and sometimes it's in watching the sun set through the window in his bedroom, the soft squeaking of his rocking chair seemingly the only noise in the whole wide world.

And sometimes, it's in crushing the sand under his shoes, walking the length of the beach with no particular goal in mind, leaving one neat set of tracks, even though he's never alone.

“You never married.”

Sometimes, Thorin doesn't say a word the whole time, nothing but one more fleeting cloud in the corner of Bilbo's eye, but sometimes, it's... this.

“Shrewdly observed,” Bilbo chuckles, sizing his companion up and down – always in black, his hands clasped behind his back, always just like he's stepped off the deck of his ship only a moment ago – the sun never bothers him, and he never casts a shadow.

“Why not?” Thorin asks, though his gaze is firmly affixed to the horizon, as it always is, as if he's waiting for something, his ship to emerge from the mist and take him away.

“Well, um,” Bilbo clears his throat, unsure whether this is a question he really wants to answer, “I suppose I never felt... the need? I spent my youth studying, and when I decided it was something I wanted to, you know, pass on, become a professor myself, I had long since passed any sensible age for marriage.”

“And your family,” the Captain notes, still not affording him a single glance, “were they not disappointed?”

“My mother probably would be, now, if she were here to witness me leading a bachelor's life at this point,” Bilbo chuckles, “but as I said, I never... desired it. My father only married my mother because she decided for the both of them that they would be perfect together – or at least that's how he always told the story. The truth is they loved each other very much, very much indeed. Perhaps I simply didn't think I'd find someone as kind to me as she had been to him. And I'd sooner become a monk than force some unfortunate soul into an arranged affair of any sort.”

A smirk dances across Thorin's lips, like a streak of sunlight, and he doesn't comment further.

“What about you, then?” Bilbo asks, hands in the pockets of his sensible overcoat, kicking a pebble in his way rather than daring to look Thorin the eye, “why did _you_ never marry?”

“How do you know I didn't?” comes an almost playful response, and laughter bubbles up in Bilbo's throat.

“Because I know. Writing a book about you and all that, remember?”

“Who's to say I've revealed all my dalliances to you?”

“Well, that's the thing,” Bilbo decides to indulge him in his teasing, “you _didn't._ All these conquests, all these adventures, and not one mention of a – a bonny lass waiting for you in each port, or a picture in your locket...”

To his surprise, that makes the Captain laugh, though his pensive mood remains.

“There were some... conquests,” he admits a bit hesitantly, ignoring Bilbo's snort at the term, “but none ever warranted anything... permanent, be it a picture in a locket, or god forbid, a wedding ring.”

“God forbid,” Bilbo repeats, amused, and Thorin huffs, stopping, turning away to gaze off to the horizon.

“I only ever loved the sea,” he concedes, so quietly and somberly, “those first couple of hours after the ship left port. The smell of brine, and the wind in my face, and the sway of the waves lulling us to sleep. There's no freedom quite like that. Certainly not in a marriage.”

The corner of Bilbo's mouth quirks upright at that last sentence, but he couldn't laugh if he wanted to – there he is, a man without his ship, a seaman stranded, never to sail again, and Bilbo had meant every word that he'd said to him once. He is _real_ , to him at least, even though Bilbo spends most of his time wondering if he really _is_ the only one who can see him. His _story_ is real, and as reluctantly as they've been cooperating, it's almost done now, and Bilbo finds himself wishing... hoping, that other people will read it, and see.

He thinks he can understand now, Thorin's desire to tell it – to leave _something_ behind.

 

Spring takes over, and the ground has warmed and thawed, and perhaps in that very same desire, Bilbo is found kneeling in the damp grass one late afternoon, digging a narrow, deep hole with his best trowel, sweat beading on his forehead, and if it weren't for the fact that he's being watched by a ghost, it would be a perfectly usual afternoon. Or, well, at this point, that's probably why it _is_ a perfectly usual afternoon.

“I thought you said nothing would grow in the garden if you didn't let more light in,” Thorin comments casually, and Bilbo sits back on his heels, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand, chuckling a bit breathlessly.

“Oh, I have no hopes for this one actually _growing,_ ” he reaches into his pocket, and Thorin comes closer to see. “It's far too old for that.”

“An acorn?”

“Indeed,” Bilbo smiles at the perfectly shaped seed in his dirty palms, brushing at its smooth surface with his thumb.

“Then why put it in the ground at all?” the Captain asks – it's hilarious to see him so genuinely interested.

“It's from the oak that grew over our house back home,” Bilbo explains, “it was the only thing I took with me to the city after my mother died. When I was little, she would tell me stories about that tree, you see, and I thought... well, it's that one tiny bit of home that I've always carried with me, you know? She would always say, _plant a tree, Bilbo, after you've stopped running._ ”

“What are you running away _from?_ ”

Bilbo opens his mouth, surprised at the sudden shudder, a slightly unpleasant tingle dancing up his spine, but then he shakes it off, quicker than it came, and smiles brightly at his companion.

“I don't quite know. I think it might have been her way of reminding me to just settle down already. Either way, I'm done running, or even walking, anywhere. I'm staying put, if that's alright with you, and this acorn might never grow into an oak, but at least it'll have a nicer place to rest than the bottom of my satchel someplace. ...Oh, I've rambled a hole into your head again, haven't I.”

Thorin glances down at him as if he's only ever noticing him now, and then resumes gazing off towards the sea, like he always does – Bilbo thinks that if they ever do manage to finish this book, and someone were to illustrate it, he'd very much like them to draw the house like that, cliffs heaving like the waves of the sea itself, the sun only just beginning to set, and its owner standing in front of it, hands clasped behind his back, his ship waiting for him on the horizon.

“You did no such thing,” Thorin mumbles, and the spell is broken, though not unpleasantly – it's simply a soft pang that Bilbo feels somewhere close to his heart, like a longing he can't quite explain, or perhaps doesn't wish to.

As he gently lowers the old acorn into the hole he's dug, he doesn't quite know what his mother would have to say about that, but he does know it makes _him_ feel grounded, quite literally like sprouting roots and finding his bedrock – he remembers when he first came here, how he feared every strange sound, how the house offered nothing but endless struggles with this or that, how he felt like he surely must have never left the city and was only dreaming when he met Thorin...

Now, he knows every inch of it intimately, every noise a reassurance he can read like a book, and as for Thorin himself... Sometimes, Bilbo forgets. Forgets that he's been spending his time with someone who doesn't rest, or eat, or – or cast a shadow when the sun is up. Who doesn't breathe, and can only offer a sardonic comment or two when Bilbo struggles with chopping wood, or moving the table, or repairing a broken chair, instead of actually picking up the tools and lending a helping hand.

Someone who, for all intents and purposes, shouldn't be there, but is. Sometimes, and he doesn't know if it's because Thorin lets him, or simply forgets he's even there, Bilbo catches himself watching, staring at the stern lines of Thorin's face, his posture, shoulders broad and chest proud, still every bit the commanding officer he used to be, and pondering... Is this luck, really? Living like this, lingering on? Should anyone wish to be seen like this, stuck in between life and death, incapable of claiming the life they'd lost, doomed to merely observe?

Especially compared with the _overabundance_ of life he sees elsewhere. If there is one _undoubtedly_ good thing that Oak Cottage has done for them, it's making Frodo whole again, rejuvenating him. He is much like the spring that now reigns in full force, teeming with energy and shining bright, and though Bilbo still catches him stirring restlessly in his sleep occasionally, or staring into space absentmindedly, sky blue eyes unfocused, he also hears his laughter infinitely more often now, and there are afternoons when he can barely make him stay still to eat one meal, until he is dashing off to the beach or the hills, one or more of his friends in tow, often guarded by Ursa the dog barking excitedly and racing them as if they're just more of the innocent lost lambs he must lead back to their herd...

If this is what Bilbo's entire life has been aspiring to, ensuring one boy's happiness and seeing to it that he grows up happy and healthy, then he will take it, bear it without a single complaint.

 

“Uncle Bilbo! I'm back! A letter came for you, Mister Gamgee gave it to me!”

“Oh, did it now? Hold on, where are you going?! Oh, hello, Samwise...” Bilbo calls after the boys, dashing through the kitchen and stomping up the stairs before he can so much as blink, “oh, one of these days I'll start having trouble keeping up with you...”

But polite as ever, Frodo and Sam are back in the kitchen just when he's set a fresh batch of biscuits and jam on the table, dutifully washing their hands and faces while Bilbo sits down with the letter, turning it over in his hands, and indeed, there it is, the return address: _M_ _me_ _Dis Durin,_ _Bellevue_ _Avenue, Paris,_ and so on, and so forth, and Bilbo's heart jumps in his chest, beating faster. It's been so long since he's written to her, and he's all but ceased to expect a response, after all.

“What is it, Uncle?” Frodo asks curiously, licking jam off his fingers.

“Oh, nothing, nothing, don't speak with your mouth full, you,” Bilbo scolds him only as an afterthought, standing up to get the letter opener from one of the cupboards, slicing the envelope open with utmost care.

“Master Bilbo, my Da says he might be able to build us a swing from one of the trees in your garden,” Samwise declares through a mouthful of biscuits as well, “that one tree by the hedge is good, Da says...”

“Yes, yes, of course, that would be wonderful,” Bilbo exhales, unfolding the paper covered in neat slanted handwriting.

“Can we go play in the garden, Uncle?”

“You know the rules,” Bilbo barely glances at them, already immersing himself in the text, “no climbing the trees, stay away from the well, don't... wander off... I'll be right back.”

“Don't wander off, Uncle!” Frodo calls after him, followed by a burst of giggling from both boys, but Bilbo only grunts something unintelligible in response, already steering out of the kitchen, the letter outstretched in his hands.

 

_Dear Mr Baggins,_

 

_thank you for taking the time to write to me, even though it was hardly your responsibility. The news of my brother's death came entirely unexpected, to say the least. As my letter to him might have hinted, we have not kept in touch for some time now, and in the grand scope of things, I suppose I can hardly be surprised that the information never got to me._

_I do not desire to bore you with unnecessary details of our falling out, but you are correct in assuming that there remained a lot unsaid between my brother and I. It is difficult to imagine that I will now never get the chance to remedy that._

_But no matter – my grief is hardly something to burden strangers with. Once again, my sincerest gratitude for your decision to write to me, that was very kind of you. Perhaps I shouldn't ask, and you are welcome to simply ignore these queries, but I cannot help but wonder – you will have lived at Oak Cottage for some months by the time this reaches you, and surely you must have learned something. Was my brother the one who offered it up for an agency to rent, while he was away? Did he perish at sea?_

_I know that these questions might seem odd to you, especially coming from an estranged sister who never took the time to actually get in contact while there was still time, but perhaps it is because of that fact that I now find myself longing for some sort of closure. It would be fortunate if you were able to assist me, but like I said, I shall not hold you at fault if you decide to simply leave this letter be. You've already done more than enough for me._

_Sincerely yours,_

 

_Dis Durin_

_23 rd March, 1908, Paris_

 

Bilbo isn't entirely certain what he'd expected – perhaps an emotional confession of a widow who has now lost one more person close to her heart, ink smudged by the tears she shed while writing the letter? But come to think of, if  Madame Durin is in the least like her brother, Bilbo  should expect a woman grieving, but strong against all odds, heartbroken, but proud. And certainly, much like the Captain himself, she's already spiked Bilbo's curiosity.

He doesn't get the time to write a response until that evening, though, because the boys demand his attention of course, and by the time he makes it back to his study, Thorin is already there, standing over the letter – Bilbo has left it unfolded on the desk on purpose, of course, and he is very curious to find out what Thorin thinks of it, very curious indeed.

“Should I tell her about what really happened to you, do you think?” he asks casually, taking a seat, Thorin moving to the window and his telescope as per usual. “I thought I'd certainly write to her about the harp. And the house is in very good shape, after all. I might even ask about her sons, you know, obviously I'd conceal the fact that I'd be asking for _you_ , but I thought perhaps you would like to know...”

“Whatever you deem necessary,” Thorin responds, his back turned to Bilbo, and his voice is dull and, as ironic as that sounds, lifeless.

“Oh, no, I didn't mean to upset you, I just figured, you know, it would be good to... know more about them, don't you think? It's been so long...”

Thorin snaps to look at him, jaw set tight and eyes blazing with some unvoiced urgency, almost desperate, but then it disappears all at once, the sky clearing after a storm, and he shakes his head and turns away again, sadness sitting heavy on his shoulders.

“It doesn't matter,” he declares evenly, as if he actually believes that, “let us return to the story. Where did we stop last night...?”

Bilbo glares at his back for a silent moment, trying to decide whether he should push the issue or not, but he relents eventually, sighing and shrugging to himself.

“Fine, have it your way,” he grumbles, “and... yes, here we go. You were just telling me about that merchant ship your fleet was guarding, the one off the shores of Spain...”

 

And just like that, Bilbo finds himself making arrangements with an editor in the nearest larger city, which would be Norwich, where they first arrived to set up renting the cottage via Laketown Realtors – it is only then, setting up an initial meeting, that he realizes he has not gone further than Dale in so long now, and truth be told, he is rather excited about the trip. Almost as excited as Frodo is about the opportunity to stay with the Gamgees for the night again – Bilbo has been worrying about the trip back, since they don't own a motor car, or have sufficient finances to rent one, and so the travels will have to rely on the train, which is bound to, with its _very unreliable_ schedules, fail to deliver him back home before the end of the day. _And_ on a school night, too.

But with Bell and Hamfast agreeing swiftly to accommodate Frodo, _and_ pick up Bilbo at the train station the following day, he is miraculously unburdened, and it proves a very odd feeling to say the least.

The whole predicament of presenting the first couple of chapters to the publisher makes him incredibly nervous, but not in the least as antsy as the _actual_ author of the book.

“And don't forget to mention the Battle of Abtao, will you?” Thorin marches the span of the master bedroom while Bilbo performs last-minute checks of his luggage, as well as everything he will be leaving behind, “it doesn't occur until later in the story, but needless to say, that's what will draw people's attention...”

“Yes, yes, stop fussing over it already,” Bilbo sighs, “it will be alright. It _is_ a good story, and I'm fairly confident I can convince them of that, you know. Have a little faith. And don't forget to keep the windows latched!”

“Yes dear,” the Captain grumbles, and Bilbo gasps in indignation, his cheeks heating up.

“Impertinent sprite,” he scolds Thorin, “don't you mess up my sheets while I'm gone, do you hear me? Or I'm not bringing back any treats.”

“Oh, I wonder what I might _possibly_ want,” Thorin declares theatrically, “perhaps a bottle of something that I can _actually_ drink.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Bilbo snorts, “I must get going now. _Be good._ ”

The memory of the sound of the Captain's laughter keeps him company all the way to the train station.

 

Norwich is a bustling city, a little bit too industrial for Bilbo's tastes, the noise of its many mills working overtime a ubiquitous hum in the background, but he navigates it easily enough, catching the first coach he comes across and simply asking the driver to deliver him to the Bowman Publishing House. It is an inconspicuously grandiose building, and Bilbo climbs the stairs to the second floor all but shivering with anticipation, wishing almost foolishly that a certain someone were there with him.

“I have a three o'clock appointment with Mister Bowman,” he introduces himself to the receptionist, who sizes him up and down somewhat suspiciously, and demands his name.

“Yes, yes, Mister Baggins. Mister Bowman himself?”

“I... think so?”

“That doesn't seem very likely,” the spindly man dismisses him, still measuring him over the rim of his neat glasses like he's the strangest specimen to have ever walked into this house.

“Well, it's – it's what we agreed,” Bilbo shrugs, “we exchanged a number of letters, you see...”

“Yes, yes, I imagine you have. Take a seat please, I'll see what I can do. Mister Bowman is a busy man, you see.”

“Yes, well, obviously, that's why we set up a meeting _so long beforehand,_ ” Bilbo doesn't save on thinly veiled bitterness, but takes a seat by the far wall more or less obediently, withstanding the man's glare quite well, in his own opinion.

“There's a gentleman in there with Mister Bowman right now, you see,” he is informed coldly, “you wouldn't have me interrupt their meeting, now would you.”

Bilbo takes care to shrug with overt cheeriness, but apparently, all irony is lost on the busy Mister Bowman's assistant, and so he merely sighs and takes to idly rapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair, and inspecting the paintings on the wall, none of them quite as impressive as the ones back home, he swiftly decides.

It might be an hour or ten minutes, but finally, the door flies open, and Bilbo is immediately summoned by Mister Judgmental Stare, as he's come to privately refer to him, so he doesn't get to see outright who it is that has just walked out of the publisher's office – and he doesn't think he has any reason to care, until a hauntingly familiar 'Bilbo Baggins! Is that really you?!' makes him spin on his heel and look up, up, until he's certain that the impressive man standing in front of him really is who he thinks he is.

“Professor Grey?” he exclaims, “what are _you_ doing here?”

“Always with the Professor. We have known each other for years, I assure you Gandalf will suffice, my lad.”

“I'm, uh... well, that is...” Bilbo stammers, blushing a bit, “of course. I'm just surprised to see you! I wrote to you a while back...”

“Yes, I know!” Gandalf beams, “that's why I'm here!”

“That's why you're – huh?” Bilbo inclines his head a bit helplessly, “but... how did you know I was going to be here in the first place?”

“Master Baggins, you _did_ set up an appointment,” the assistant jumps in just as Gandalf is about to answer, and Bilbo finds he is a bit dazed by this sudden turn of events.

“Yes, yes, of course, I just...”

“What do you say I wait for you to finish in there, and then we have a cup of tea?” Gandalf is very quick to jump in, “I know a lovely place just around the corner, and I would absolutely _adore it_ if we were able to catch up. What do you say?”

Bilbo gapes at him mutely, a face from his past he didn't think he'd be seeing again any time soon, and from him to the open door waiting for him, the weight of his – Thorin's – manuscript tugging at his satchel...

“Yes, yes, of course, that would be... lovely,” he concedes, “I don't quite know how long I will take in there...”

“Doesn't matter to me in the slightest,” Gandalf waves his hand graciously, “I'm sure I'll have a grand time with Mister Peabottom here, hammering out the finer details of _my_ arrangement, while you figure out yours.”

And with that, and a powerful glare from the surly assistant, Bilbo can do nothing but hurry inside the publisher's office at long last, casting a glance or two back over his shoulder, just to make sure that he hasn't dreamt the entirety of this encounter. But no, Gandalf is really there, folding his impressive frame into the chair Bilbo had sat in, putting his top hat on with a signature flair that makes Bilbo smile, hooking his umbrella on his forearm, almost as if neither of them have ever left the university...

“Everything quite alright?”

He actually starts, remembering only now that he's in fact not alone in the room he's just entered, and he swivels around quickly.

“Oh, my apologies. So sorry. I just – um. Good afternoon. My name is Bilbo Baggins.”

“Good afternoon, Mister Baggins,” the man behind the spacious table smiles, standing up to shake his hand, “are you sure you're alright? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Bilbo barks a laugh before he can stop himself, and then abruptly clears his throat as the man quirks an eyebrow – he is surprisingly young, perhaps younger than Bilbo even, and has a very trustworthy, if stern, face, dark hair and a brooding brow, but Bilbo is, after all, used to seeing all that in much more stupefying quantities elsewhere. And besides, something about this person immediately puts him at ease, which certainly couldn't be said for the Captain at first.

“I'm perfectly fine,” he says with an apologetic smile, “it's a pleasure to meet you, Mister... Bowman, I assume.”

“Yes, that would be me,” the publisher grins, “I gather you know the gentleman who was here before you?”

“Oddly enough, I do, yes,” Bilbo admits with some confusion still, “we used to be fellow... professors, in London, a long time ago. What did he want with your Publishing House, if you don't mind me asking?”

“What everyone usually wants from a Publishing House, I suppose,” Mister Bowman smiles, “to publish a book. Isn't that why you're here as well?”

“Is that... yes, yes, of course!” Bilbo titters.  
“Well then,” Mister Bowman leans forward, “I understand you're writing about a sea captain?”

 

When he stumbles out of the publisher's office, slightly stupefied and not a small bit exhilarated, it has started raining heavily, his stomach protesting the lack of anything of any real sustenance in it since lunch – he barely expects Gandalf to have actually stuck around (in fact, he's not entirely sure they even met in the first place, but come to think of it, it isn't even the strangest thing that has happened to him lately), but the man is still there where he left him, sitting in the chair by the wall, somehow having succeeded at roping the bitter assistant into a lively debate. He springs to his feet the second he lays eyes on Bilbo, though, and steers him out of the Publishing House and into a coach he has miraculously summoned seemingly out of nowhere, leaving Bilbo a bit flabbergasted.

“How did it go, then?” he asks him, the rain drumming on the roof of the coach as it rattles off to god knows where, “are you going to be a published writer after all?”

“It... seems like it?” Bilbo offers unsteadily, “this was supposed to be only an initial meeting, for him to look over the draft of the first chapter or so, but he ended up reading all the way through to the unfinished parts, and even offered me an advance!”

“Oh, but that's wonderful! Congratulations!” Gandalf leans forth to pat Bilbo's arm, “who would have thought.”

“Not me, that's for sure,” Bilbo mutters, and then squints at Gandalf, “will you tell me how come we've met here, of all places? You never replied to my letter, so I figured you were either busy or uninterested, or maybe I'd gotten the wrong address...”

“Nothing of the sort, my dear fellow,” Gandalf still looks so enthused, like he's in on some secret outcome of their meeting he hasn't quite shared with Bilbo yet, “but you're right, I _was_ too busy to respond immediately. So I figured I'd best meet you in person.”

“You _could have_ given me a warning, you know.”

“No time,” Gandalf waves his hand, “never enough time. But tell me more about this sea captain you're writing about! How terribly exciting!”

 

They end up sitting down for afternoon tea in a lovely little cafe somewhere in the city, and Bilbo couldn't hope to find his way from here to his lodgings for the night in his wildest dreams, but that doesn't matter now – without having any say in it whatsoever, he is swept off his feet by Gandalf deciding to tell him probably every single exciting thing that has occurred to him, or someone they used to know, at once, and really, it has been _years,_ and Bilbo finds he is... Not completely without interest, but... invested elsewhere. Yes, that's one way to put it.

Which certainly shows when Gandalf inquires more and more about the Captain. Thorin and him have long since worked out what Bilbo is to say in these instances, and so he speaks about the hoards of letters he found at the house, and the people of Dale telling him about Thorin's life, and stitching the story together from all that, and as far as he can see, Gandalf believes it. It would be stranger if he didn't, after all – the alternative is far too ludicrous for anyone to comprehend.

“...But yes, there are some facts I can't quite access, and don't feel very confident making up,” Bilbo explains further.

“The fate of his ship,” Gandalf says, “yes, I remember from your letter. What was its name again...?”

“HMS Erebor,” Bilbo recites, “according to him – his writings, it was... lost, somehow, or taken from him alongside his title, I don't know the full story, obviously. And I have nowhere to look it up, that's why I wrote to you.”

“And that's why I came to see you,” Gandalf nods, and Bilbo's heart leaps in anticipation.

“You know of it?”

“I haven't heard that name in a very long time,” Gandalf sighs, slouching in his seat in the upholstered booth, some concern of a darker kind briefly flashing in his eyes.

“And the last time you _did_ hear it?” Bilbo asks bluntly, trying to figure out if taking out his notebook and pencil to jot down some notes would be terribly inappropriate.

“Erebor was among the oldest ships in the navy even back when I served,” Gandalf explains broadly, “built back when the idea of a metal ship would make any proper sailor laugh. It had served in Her Majesty's Royal Navy all that time, but always belonged to one family, from what I understand.”

“Durin,” Bilbo breathes out, and Gandalf's eyes narrow.

“Yes. I don't know the full story, and I don't really think anyone does, these days, but the name of Admiral Thror Durin meant something, back in our day – back when I was barely more than a green landlubber myself. He must have been your Captain's grandfather, it's so long ago.”

“Grandfather,” Bilbo repeats, trying to file it away in his head to further question Thorin when he gets home.

“Indeed. _Something_ happened, and he was all but stripped of his title, ending up with one ship instead of an entire fleet, Captain instead of Admiral.”

“And then his grandson ended up losing the ship altogether,” Bilbo hums thoughtfully, “one may only wonder... I know from him – his sister, that is, err, the correspondence with her, that _something_ happened to him as well. Something that he... refused to talk about, fearing for the safety of his old crew.”

Gandalf frowns strongly now, gazing away from Bilbo and out of the window of their cafe, rivulets of rain streaking down it, but Bilbo himself watches his hands, wringing together on the table in what could very well be perceived as an intense worry. When Gandalf looks at him again, there is a sadness, but also an urgency, in his eyes, and coupled with his next words, it does very little to sate Bilbo's curiosity.

“I took the courtesy of contacting some old acquaintances of mine when I read you were interested in the HMS Erebor, and they all told me the same thing,” his old friend admits heavily, “let that story rest along with the Captain.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then, here we are! Bard was a lot of fun to include, but don't ask me how it works with Dale and Laketown Realtors and everything :D Hope you enjoyed!


	9. Chapter 9

_Dear Mr Baggins,_

 

_thank you for such a swift response – I did not expect it to arrive at all, I must admit. My heart rebels at the idea of my brother dying by such a pointless accident, but I thank you for not immediately assuming the worst of him. In the eyes of the people from Dale, he did indeed have more than enough reason to take his own life, and if they do not believe the contrary, then I suppose I must be content with your faith in the matter, at least._

_I have not yet mustered the courage to tell my sons. I cannot say whether it is utter folly, or simply a mother's instinct to protect her children from more harm. My eldest, Fili, will be leaving me for Sorbonne, the university, after this summer, and his younger brother has rather adventurous plans of his own, despite the fact that he is barely fourteen years old. Perhaps it is unreasonable of me to keep this from them, I don't know. Do you understand? You mentioned a nephew of your own – surely the need to let them be children for as long as possible isn't entirely unknown to you, as unreasonable as it may be at times._

_As for all the questions of your own, I don't mind you asking in the slightest, but I'm afraid I won't be much help in that matter at all. My brother certainly never shared very much of his work with me, and the disappearance of his ship is as much of a mystery to me as it is to you._

_With that said, no matter how curious I might find it that you decided to write a book detailing his life, it is not in my heart to stop you – I am as much at fault as anyone for not paying attention to him when he most needed it. We were his family, and we abandoned him. His story deserves to be told, to be known, to be read by young men not unlike my sons – I think that perhaps it is fate working in your favor, and his as well, albeit too late, by sending you to Oak Cottage. He might never have admitted it, but he would have wanted his story to be told. You are doing a great service to a great man. Thank you, and please, don't hesitate to keep me up to date with your progress._

_Sincerely yours,_

 

_Dis Durin_

_3 rd of May, Paris_

 

Bilbo's throat is uncomfortably dry by the time he finishes reading the letter, and he almost daren't look at Thorin – before he can fold the papers in half once more and hide them in his desk drawer, one pale hand reaches down, fingertips hovering over the neat slanted handwriting, the two curved D's of the signature, as if Thorin hopes he might get closer to his sister like that, as if it is the only connection with her he has left.

“I told you,” Bilbo murmurs gently, “she has forgiven you a long time ago.”

The Captain says nothing, moving away, the breeze in the grass and the elm leaves the only sound now, a quiet, calming whisper.

Bilbo watches, watches Thorin as he moves silently from the veranda to stand in the garden, walking towards the hedgerow that severs the premises of the cottage from Beorn's fields, walking until he begins fading, until he is nothing more than translucent dust for the wind to pick up and carry off to the sea. Bilbo doesn't think he will be getting used to the sight any time soon – not the disappearing part, that's Thorin's favorite thing to do on any odd afternoon, after all, but mostly the grief. Somehow, Bilbo has become a part of this family's story, and he is no longer an innocent onlooker – he hesitated telling Madame Durin about the book, or about his personal little inquiries about the long lost HMS Erebor, but every time he doubts, he imagines her sitting alone in some lofty French apartment, a proud but lonely widow, and he feels a sort of obligation, both to keep informing her about his progress, and keep her company.

For his part, Thorin doesn't seem to mind, but Bilbo gets the distinct feeling that he's torturing himself too much over it all – indeed, when he himself thinks too long and hard about the fact that the siblings have missed their chance to make things right between them, and that two boys have missed the chance to see their Uncle ever again, it's enough to make him feel such compassion for both Madame Dis and the Captain that it threatens to completely consume his thoughts.

And it seems that all that he can do to help them, is tell this story, even though he's been advised against it.

His unexpected meeting with Gandalf still lingers heavy on his mind, and he wonders if he will ever be able to discover this part of Thorin's past entirely on his lonesome – it is not part of the _actual_ story per se, since the Captain wishes the book to be only about the time he was actually alive and thriving in the Navy, but that doesn't mean Bilbo doesn't wish ardently to know the truth.

 

But in the meantime, others have somehow learned about his plans, and while Bilbo wasn't paying attention, his book has somehow swiftly become the talk of the entire township.

“I say, writing sounds like a terribly difficult way to make a living, that's all.”

“And carpentry isn't?” Bilbo chuckles, his friend Bofur scowling good-naturedly.

“Well, at least I _know_ when money is coming my way, for each and every thing I do,” he declares, clearly jesting, and it is Bilbo's turn to huff in pretend indignation.

“Oh, and I don't? May I remind you that it is my advance that has provided for about half this feast's baked goods?”

One broad gesture is enough to cover all the tables straining under the weight of countless plates overflowing with food of all kinds, from the aforementioned pastries of Bilbo's making to Bell Gamgee's fruit salads, from sorbets to an entire leg of ham – apparently the people of Dale find any and all cause to celebrate, and though Bilbo can't even pretend to understand whose birthday it is this time (someone long dead, a founding father of the town/type/person?), he shares his neighbors' love for feasting and enjoying themselves whenever the opportunity arises. When Bell Gamgee and her consortium of housewives approached him about holding the grand celebration at his house, _it is about time you put that large garden of yours to use, isn't it,_ Bilbo had promptly choked on the tea he was drinking at the time, and almost said he would have to ask Thorin first, but fortunately stopped before he could make a fool of himself, and, even more fortunately, Thorin ended up agreeing, though under strict orders not to let anyone anywhere near the second floor.

“Fair enough, fair enough,” Bofur pats Bilbo's shoulder, “I think it'll be a thrilling book, don't get me wrong. I just wonder what the Captain himself might think about it if he were alive. I can't imagine he would be very happy.”

“Then I suppose it is for the best that we will never know,” Bilbo huffs a laugh, having already started scanning the crowd for a familiar tall figure – the Captain has kept to himself so far, fortunately, but frankly, Bilbo expects to hear someone's startled shrieking any second now.

But so far, the only louder sounds are the cackling of seagulls, who have begun flocking above the house, tempted with all that food, and the laughter of all the children dashing through the garden – Bilbo allows himself to relax somewhat, even beginning to enjoy his role of the host. He doesn't think he will be doing this often, he likes his solitude far too much, but it is a refreshing experience, every now and then.

“Perhaps you could read a bit of it to us!” someone suggests at one point or another, and though he attempts to protest, he ends up fetching his notes eventually, his mind racing as he tries to come up with the best portion of the book to share – he would very much like for Thorin to offer _some_ insights, but the house remains utterly quiet despite Bilbo's uttered inquiries when no one is looking. It was only yesterday after all that the letter from Dis arrived, and though Thorin did make a brief appearance in the evening to bicker with Bilbo about this or that _absolutely necessary_ naval detail in the story, it's understandable that he wishes to keep his distance, and Bilbo has had too much on his mind to be anything but momentarily grateful for that.

But right now, he's about to share what the two of them have been spending almost every evening hunched over ever since Bilbo came here, and he would very much like to know how the Captain feels about that.

In the end, he decides to read what he once let his publisher read, sitting in the richly upholstered armchair in his office some weeks ago, wringing his hands in his lap out of sheer nerves, only to receive a much better reaction than he could have ever hoped for. The words feel foreign in his mouth, probably because they simply aren't his own, but the afternoon is warm, the elm trees offering a pleasant, cool shade, and Frodo sits in the grass at the foot of Bilbo's chair, gazing up at him reverently alongside the dozen other faces, and it feels... right.

He doesn't dare turn around to confirm, but he feels as if Thorin is watching as well – or at least Bilbo hopes he is. He receives an applause even after reading only a handful of paragraphs, and he wants to tell Thorin, _you were right. It_ is _a good story, and people are going to love it. See?_

 

Fortunately for the more reclusive parts of Bilbo's personality, the cottage is too small to house anyone but him and Frodo overnight – that might not be completely true, but Bilbo has very little desire to make breakfast for anyone but himself and the boy. He feels drained, but it is a pleasant kind of exhaustion, and one by one, he sees his neighbors and friends off, coach after coach, family after family disappearing off up the hill and beyond, like a line of ants. Bilbo and Frodo stand on the veranda, waving everyone off – only Bofur, the Gamgees and Beorn the shepherd remain in the end, helping them clean up the garden, taking the tables and chairs inside, Missus Bell persisting until Bilbo relents and lets her help with the dishes.

But even they find their way home eventually, the barking of the large black dog the very last sound until the cove sinks back into its solitary silence, the sun having almost finished its journey across the sky and below the line of the horizon. The air is cooler now, the breeze refreshing, and Bilbo is in no rush to usher the boy inside – instead, they sit side by side up on the wooden steps leading up to the veranda, Bilbo calm and Frodo fidgeting, tugging at the tall grass and tying it into knots, and it is the most peaceful they've been in all their time here, Bilbo concedes.

“Seems like we've finally managed to convince everyone we don't live in a haunted house,” he announces, ruffling Frodo's hair, and as the boy giggles, Bilbo finally sees him, the figure he's been missing all this time – he suddenly stands down there by the wooden gate, darker than any shadow, his back turned to them, and Bilbo knows he's watching the sea again, though what he really sees, he couldn't venture a guess.

Bilbo cautiously looks from him to Frodo, but the boy really doesn't see him, preoccupied with trying to weave blades of grass into some sort of braid, his face a picture of serene concentration – and in that moment, Bilbo feels such an overwhelming love, for him, for this house, for the sea and the beach, for the echo of a man only he can see.

 

“That was... eventful.”

Frodo has been put to bed, falling asleep easily and soundly, but Bilbo hardly feels like resting himself – no, the night is too nice, too warm, and so he's made himself some tea and returned to the veranda, to gaze at the stars and breathe the fresh air, knowing that he wouldn't end up alone.

“Indeed,” the Captain mumbles, standing close by, and if Bilbo concentrates, he thinks he can see the fireflies flickering in the grass around him, making the garden appear a night sky of its own, Thorin somewhere halfway between disappearing again and staying. At least now, Bilbo knows which one he would prefer.

“Did you ever have company here, aside from...?” Bilbo swallows the ending of that sentence, not entirely sure yet how much of Thorin's past with his family he can bring up around him.

“After she and the boys left, not really,” he replies calmly though, “before that, on occasion.”

“No one from the town, though,” Bilbo observes.

“No.”

“Your crew, then?”

Thorin inhales deeply, shoulders straightening, and turns to look at Bilbo – who expects to meet some distance in his eyes, even some sorrow perhaps, but meets with the softest smile.

“You didn't think I built this house _entirely_ with my own two hands, did you?” the Captain notes, and Bilbo grins.

“No. What were they like?”

“Brave,” Thorin declares somberly, “loyal. Great fans of rum.”

Bilbo giggles into his tea, and catches a bright flash of teeth as the Captain's smile broadens. The night is very warm indeed.

“Where are they now?” he dares ask, and Thorin's face is veiled in darkness yet again.

“Most of them? Same as me.”

“Annoying the tenants in their places of residence by banging on the shelves too early in the morning, you mean?”

_That_ grants him a huffed laugh that tries and fails at  _not sounding at all amused_ .

“I don't think so, no. Just... gone.”

“I see,” Bilbo sighs, leaning against the wooden railing, “why do I get the idea that you don't actually know? Would you like me to look into it?”

“That won't be necessary. Don't waste too much time on a dead man's affairs.”

“Excuse me, that's _all_ I've been doing lately,” Bilbo reminds him playfully, but this time, his smile is only a flicker, before his jaw is set with brooding tension again.

“You shouldn't.”

“Why not?” Bilbo inclines his head, fighting the urge to scowl at Thorin teasingly.

“You know what I mean,” the Captain declares, taking to pacing in front of the veranda, entirely silent, not one blade of grass stirring as he moves by, “entertaining guests obviously... agrees with you.”

“...Thank you?” Bilbo squints.

“You should be out there,” Thorin continues, jerking his hand briefly and sharply to point towards... the entirety of the world, in one way or another, before quickly retreating, turning away, his striding becoming more restless. “You are young yet, and well-read, and educated. It should be your goal to share that, to be among people, start – start a family, someplace that's not the very peak of the world...”

“Now you're starting to sound a bit like all my Aunts,” Bilbo snorts, but when he sees that it doesn't move the stone of Thorin's features one bit, he adds more seriously, “when did you decide I needed to _get a proper life?_ Are you telling me to leave you here on your own, and go back to the city, is that it?”

“No, I just-”

“Because as far as I'm concerned, Frodo is all the family I will ever need, you know,” Bilbo counters effortlessly, and when Thorin continues frowning, he adds, “and as for _being among people,_ can you honestly imagine me doing this every night? Goodness gracious, I've had enough of company for a month, at least!”

The Captain laughs almost uneasily, like he's not entirely certain he wants to.

“I just mean-”

“I know what you _mean,_ ” Bilbo interrupts him gently, but firmly, “and it's kind of you to worry, it really is. But I'm _fine_ here. I came here for a reason, you know.”

“Frodo.”

“Yes, him, of course. But also...”

Bilbo sighs, clutching the mug in both hands and taking a long gulp before continuing: “Him and I share the grief of losing our parents, though of course to lose them as a child is much worse, I'll admit that. But the point of the matter is... I've found peace here. Ironic, isn't it? Once, I thought I would be able to be happy in London, surrounded by people, like you said, students, fellow scholars, even my numerous meddling family members. But...”

Only then does he truly realize the intensity of Thorin's gaze, and whatever words he'd wanted to say, never make it past his lips. He blushes, looking away, and for a moment, both of them are silent, the crickets taking over with their discordant love songs.

“I wish I had met you while I was still alive.”

Bilbo's heart skips a beat in a shocked gasp, and he looks at Thorin, only to see him staring back, softer around the edges, regret and kindness in equal measures. It steals Bilbo's breath away, utterly and thoroughly, but he still laughs, because he doesn't know what else there is to do, really.

“Right. Because we would have liked each other so much, I'm sure.”

“Not more or less than we like each other now,” Thorin smiles, but there's very little joy in it.

“Well, at least I could slap your hand away every time you tried interfering with my baking,” Bilbo offers lightly, because he really doesn't want to steer this conversation anywhere that isn't their usual teasing.

“And you'd continue doing next to no real damage,” Thorin retorts swiftly enough, but his grin is only a passing thing.

“You could chop firewood for me, instead of just calling me some sailor equivalent of a pansy when I try to do it myself.”

“Oh, I don't think I'd stop doing that anyway.”

“Fair enough. Well, I certainly think you'd never let us stay here if you were able to write that blasted book on your own, now would you.”

Thorin opens his mouth to reply in kind, but it's as if Bilbo has hit some invisible sore spot – his usually stern features twist in some unvoiced pain ever so briefly, but then he decides to overpower that the same way he usually does, by offering a half-hearted smile.

“I wouldn't say never,” he says quietly, and for that, Bilbo doesn't have a sharp response at the ready at all, which is unsettling, to say the least.

Befuddled and slightly concerned, he can do nothing but hold Thorin's gaze,  piercing sky blue eyes hiding words that neither of them have ever said out loud; never will.

“I'm sorry,” Bilbo breathes out, and he truly is, for whatever happened to Thorin, for his sister and his nephews, for his crew and his long-lost ship... For himself, for being his only connection to the outside world anymore, for not being enough, never enough.

“No,” Thorin breathes out, more than he says it out loud, and steps closer, not a sound, not his breath, not his footsteps on the pebbles of the path.

“No,” he repeats with such earnest conviction, as if proving Bilbo wrong is the only thing left for him to do, and reaches forth, his hand at Bilbo's cheek – Bilbo's breath catches in his throat, a shudder dancing up his spine, and it's as like the gentle spray of sea foam when one stands by the sea when it's windy; the feather-light caress of breeze after opening a window wide first thing in the morning.

But it will never be any more than that.

“Thank you,” Thorin tells him quietly, and before Bilbo can ask him what for, assure him that he's glad he could help, anything that requires the actual effort of wringing out a couple of words, Thorin performs his vanishing act once more, and only the crickets and fireflies are left to keep Bilbo company.

 

-

 

_Dearest Mrs Durin,_

 

_enclosed you will find the first draft of the first two chapters of the book. My publisher was gracious enough to employ a person willing to print these out for me on some very special thin paper, as you can no doubt see – and yet, I couldn't simply send those in a plain envelope, hence the package. I hope you don't mind, but my nephew implored until I relented, and packed some of my freshest batch of shortbread to go with it. It is very durable, and provided they don't toss the package around too much on the way there, it should arrive in more or less edible condition._

_But to address what you talked about in your letter to me – I understand perfectly what you mean about the desire to keep our children safe from the terrors of the world for as long as possible. My nephew lost his parents mere two years ago, and though he is a healthy, happy child, I know that that experience has left a mark on him, one that I will never be able to completely erase, despite my best efforts._

_At first, I worried about him immensely, and wouldn't bring up his parents at all, in fear of upsetting him further. But then one day, as I was reading a bedtime story to him, he asked about them himself, shared a fragment of a memory he had of them, and while it touched me deeply, it also made me realize that perhaps it was for the best, talking about it. He's never seen a reason not to – he misses them still, immensely so, but he will not simply stop, if I refuse to mention the issue. I do not mean to pressure you into telling your sons about their Uncle's demise, nor do I presume to know enough about your relationship with them to cast myself in the role of adviser, but I thought I'd share this experience with you nevertheless, just in case it might help. Whatever you decide, I'm sure you will be doing it with your sons' best interest at heart._

_In other news, the title of the book eludes me still. The publisher has had some suggestions, of course, but 'A Corsair's Life At Sea' sounds a bit vague, while 'The Adventures Of A Sea Captain' is downright boring. If you have any suggestions at all, don't hesitate to share them. As I find myself nearing the end of this strange undertaking, it is becoming clearer and clearer to me that your brother indeed was a great man – and don't ask me how I can possibly know this (perhaps I am only imagining things yet again), but I do believe that he loved all of you until his dying day, and never stopped hoping that he might one day get the opportunity to tell you that there never had been anything to forgive. The mistake might have been, in your own words, on both sides, but please, do not torture yourself over never granting him your forgiveness, or your apologies, in person. I'm certain he knew._

_Don't hesitate to offer your sharpest critique on the excerpt from the book – it is you, after all, who knew him best, and I am attempting but a retelling of his incredible tale. And I do so hope you like the shortbread._

_Sincerely yours,_

 

_Bilbo Baggins_

_27 th of May, Oak Cottage, Dale_

 

-

 

It has been almost a year now, a year since they first laid eyes on Oak Cottage, nestled in its little cove, and every day, it shines ever brighter. Bilbo has since learned how to chop firewood, and safeguard a roof against the elements, and tell when a storm is coming simply by the color of the sky and the sea alike... And, somehow, among it all, how to write a book.

It is a strange sort of excitement, unlike anything Bilbo has ever experienced, and Frodo and him make a day of it – get on the train in the morning and ride it to Norwich, only to see it the first batch of volumes bound in deep, royal blue stacked in the window of a bookstore that Mister Bowman the publisher shows them to.

_'A Seaman's True Colors'_ , they decided to call it in the end, and Bilbo thinks it's nice – very nice indeed. After arduous arguing, Thorin had agreed upon it one sunny afternoon on the beach, and Bilbo can only wish he were here now, to see this. There is a very meticulous drawing of a ship struggling on a stormy sea on the cover, and Bilbo traces it with his fingertips thoughtfully, the delicate lines, the waves crashing high, and thinks he can almost hear the roar of them, the wood protesting, a man at the deck standing tall and shouting at his crew to keep their ship afloat...

“Hmm, yes, excuse me?”

He's managed to lose track of the conversation quite successfully, and across the table, Mister Bowman is smiling at him somewhat inquisitively, while next to him, Frodo is leafing through his own copy of the book with a reverent caution.

“I asked if you were planning on continuing the story,” the publisher notes, “you yourself said that there were some fact you've yet to discover.”

“Oh... oh. Yes, that's right, I did say that,” Bilbo stammers, “well, um... you see, I don't quite know if I'll ever be able to find out _everything._ My sources are, after all, limited.”

“Are they?” Mister Bowman smiles mysteriously, and when Bilbo frowns at him, he waves his hand: “Oh, nothing, I meant nothing by it. It's just that... if I didn't know better, I'd think you must have consulted the esteemed Captain himself, at one point or another. It's all so vivid.”

Bilbo's throat dries up very quickly, and he has to take a sip of his tea to remedy it, but he manages to reply effortlessly enough: “No no, just a very active imagination, that's all there is to it, I'm afraid.”

“Well, I'm sure the Captain would enjoy your take on his life story,” the publisher declares, “as will the readers, I assure you.”

“If you say so,” Bilbo takes care to smile a tad shyly.

“Oh, I do say so. I'll send you a telegraph immediately when we have the results of the first sales. This will be a success, I can sense it!”

 

The train carries them back to Dale with the setting of the sun, a whole bag of books richer (as Bilbo has already promised some to his acquaintances in town, as well as one to send all the way to France to Madame Dis), but oddly enough, Bilbo doesn't feel any particular sense of accomplishment, not really. Frodo spends the ride either with his hands pressed against the window, staring out at the countryside passing them in a dash, or reading out passages from the book, and Bilbo is seized by a sudden fear – what if they arrive at the cottage... at _home,_ and Thorin isn't there anymore? What if getting this book published, getting his story out there, will have been what it takes to... to finally put his spirit at rest?

The evening is warm, summer in full power, the sky bleached a periwinkle blue, seagulls keeping them company as they walk the length of the road leading all the way from Dale to their cove, and yet, Bilbo feels a strange, unsettling cold creeping up the back of his neck – Frodo should, for all intents and purposes, be tired from their travels, and yet he skips ahead of Bilbo without a care in the world, fingertips tracing the long grass at the side of the road, and he'd probably run all the way around the cliffs to the cottage if Bilbo let him.

Fishing boats cross the calm sea here and there for an evening hunt, and by the time they've walked all the way around the cliffs and down the beach below Oak Cottage, Frodo even calls his attention to a massive steamboat on the horizon, but close enough for them to recognize the tiny dots of dozens of windows, and the crease it rows in the water like a lace ribbon.

“Did the Captain have a ship like that, Uncle?” Frodo asks, settling down for a moment as they stand side by side by the wooden railing lining the road, slipping his hand into Bilbo's.

“No no, his ship was a frigate,” Bilbo replies quicker than he can really think about it.

“What's a frigate?” his nephew wants to know, following him dutifully forth to the house, though he keeps looking back over his shoulder to check if the steamboat is still there.

“It's a warship,” Bilbo explains, stopping only for a second to consider how easily this knowledge is coming to him, especially since it's something he never would have bothered with a year ago. “They are built for fighting in battles, and are very quick and easy to steer.”

“They have guns?”

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but almost swallows his tongue, that's how startled he is by Thorin appearing out of nowhere just a couple of steps away, by the old ruined pier with the initials of his nephews carved into it – no matter how somber he might look, such a wave of relief washes over Bilbo at the sight of him that he barely stops himself from running ahead to say hello.

The Captain turns to him, arms behind his back, the gentlest smile on his face, and up and behind him, the last of the sun's rays set the white walls of Oak Cottage ablaze, the brightest orange, and a grin spreads over Bilbo's face, and he raises his hand in a greeting that his nephew doesn't notice – unlike the lack of his answer.

“Uncle? Did the Captain have guns?”

Thorin's smile softens even more as he gazes at the boy, and Bilbo chuckles.

“Yes, lots of them,” he says at last, Thorin turning to look at him, his eyebrow arching up curiously. “You see, our Captain's ship was very old, and built entirely from wood. She was the fastest one around, and won many, many battles.”

“Wo-ow,” Frodo's mouth forms an awed 'o' – Thorin laughs softly, and it disappears in the cackling of the seagulls overhead.

“But then they started building ships from metal,” Bilbo continues carefully, but Thorin doesn't seem to protest, simply taking to pacing by their side, a little ways off, “and our Captain's frigate was no longer the strongest one.”

“ _But it was still damn fast_ ,” Thorin grumbles.

“But it was still very fast, yes,” Bilbo chuckles, “and they offered that they would either rebuild it for him, or assign him another ship, and Erebor would be decommissioned.”

“Decommish-” Frodo attempts to repeat the word.

“Decommissioned,” Bilbo says once more, “it means... put out of active use. Not allowed to serve in the Navy anymore, because it would no longer be as quick or as powerful as the rest. But our Captain-” the smile on Thorin's face is right there, always there, even though Bilbo only catches it out of the corner of his eye, “-would have none of it, of course. He said that if they decommissioned his ship, they'd be decommissioning him with it.”

“And... did they?” Frodo breathes out, almost endearingly worried.

“No, no, of course not,” Bilbo smiles, “in fact, no one quite knows what happened to the ship.”

“Not even the Captain?” Frodo asks perfectly innocently, and as he bends down to pick up a particularly interestingly shaped piece of driftwood, Bilbo and Thorin exchange a curious look.

“ _I haven't_ ,” Thorin answers a question Bilbo never asked.

“Well, if he does, he's not telling me any time soon,” Bilbo answers his nephew cheerily, which seems to appease him for the moment – by his side, Thorin rolls his eyes, but it's all in unnaturally good spirits, at least for him.

They manage to get home eventually, even though Frodo once again attempts to bring half the beach in with him, and Thorin lingers around as Bilbo prepares a late dinner, leaving one book at the kitchen table for him to inspect – the quiet hiss of leaf after leaf turning is somewhat peaceful to his ears, and Thorin doesn't comment beyond the occasional huff that might be indignation or amusement, it's difficult to tell.

“What do you think?” Bilbo asks him when he finds him in the same spot still after having put Frodo to bed and gotten ready for sleep himself, only having come down here to get a glass of water, and instead discovering a ghost reading his own memoir.

“True colors,” Thorin smirks, “I like it.”

“Well, you approved it,” Bilbo chuckles.

Silence reigns for a moment, pierced only by the distant call of a bird Bilbo can't recognize, until the book on the table shuffles shut, and Thorin gazes at him calmly.

“Thank you,” he says simply, and Bilbo inclines his head.

“You're... welcome. For?”

“This,” he gestures to the book, “telling my story.”

“Well,” Bilbo smiles at him just the slightest bit wryly, moving to sit at the table, “someone ought to. It _is_ a good story. And you were the one who told it, really.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. And you're welcome. It was my pleasure.”

Those words aren't said exactly lightly, though Bilbo can barely discern why – outside, the crescent moon reflects in the surface of the sea, a thousand brilliant speckles of pure silver, and Bilbo can't look away. He exhales raggedly, and it's as if it rattles his whole body – that ill feeling from that evening hasn't quite left him yet, and there's no telling where it even came from.

“What is it?”

Thorin stands by his side, gazing in the same direction as he is, silent, breathless, cold, translucent like the moonlight. Bilbo remembers the other night, the fireflies and the touch he never felt, and he hangs his head.

“I thought you were going to – that you wouldn't be here anymore.”

He doesn't look, but knows that Thorin is frowning.

“Why wouldn't I be here?”

“Because... because perhaps finally finishing this book, getting your story out there, was what you wanted, and that it would... put your soul to rest. That sounds awful. I'm sorry.”

The silence continues to be near unbearable for a moment, but then, to Bilbo's surprise, Thorin laughs, quietly but earnestly, genuinely amused.

“Is mine the first sailor story you've ever been told?” he notes, and when Bilbo does look up at him, frowning slightly instead of an answer, his smile only broadens.

“A seaman's soul is never at rest,” he declares quite plainly, “that's why we're buried at sea, because we never want to part from it.”

“Were you?” Bilbo peeps.

“No. But that's not why I linger here.”

“No?”

“No,” the Captain shakes his head, still looking dead ahead, “I sat down in my armchair one night, and the next time I got up from it, I didn't have a body. That's all I remember.”

“So you... don't know where you're buried?” Bilbo asks, his eyes glued to the painting of the ship on the cover of the book – the glow of the moon is making the waves appear almost alive.

“I don't.”

“But – why didn't you tell me?!”

“Why would I? I wanted the story to be about my _life_ , didn't I,” Thorin shrugs, and that smile is too soft, too resigned – it tugs at Bilbo's heartstrings.

“What about this story?” he murmurs quietly.

“What about it?” Thorin smirks, and Bilbo thinks, _I am a man in his nightshirt at the edge of the world, sitting at a kitchen table with a ghost. Who's going to write about this, one day?_

“I don't want to be the only one who... knows about you,” he replies unsteadily, “you don't deserve that, now do you.”

“Bilbo-” Thorin starts, and he can _hear_ the nonexistent breath catching in his throat.

“You deserve to see your sister again,” he says firmly, “and your nephews. And you deserve people to know that it was you telling your story, and that you're still – still _here,_ still watching, still listening, still _feeling-_ ”

“And what good would that do anyone?!” Thorin interrupts him rather sharply, and when Bilbo looks up at him with wide eyes, his glare softens somewhat, as does his voice, “I'm long gone, Bilbo. I'm not the man you wrote a book about. I'm not _here-_ ”

“We had this conversation before,” Bilbo is now strangely determined to jump in, “remember? I can see you, so you're real. I can talk to you, so you're real. I can feel for you, so you're _real._ ”

His voice wavers here and there, but the words come out of him in one uncontrollable stream anyway, and Thorin stares at him, such a likeness of his painting, eyes blazing, angry and stern, and Bilbo thinks he's _magnificent_.

“I do wish we'd met years ago,” he says at last, and it's as if he's accusing Bilbo of somehow not making that happen.

“You said that before, too,” Bilbo fights right back.

“Well, it is true!”

“Well, you would have hated me! And I you.”

“Stubborn man.”

“Obstinate sprite.”

“...I'm sure you would have gotten seasick within the blink of an eye if I took you on my ship.”

“Who said I would ever set _foot_ on your blasted ship? I'd bet good money I'd never teach you how to bake without burning things.”

“Oh, what a valuable skill to possess _at sea,_ yes. I'd just let you plant your _herbs_ while I was away, that would be for the best.”

“Yes, it would, because I'd finally get a moment of _peace_ , without your constant _hovering!_ ”

And so on, and so forth. Outside, the moon climbs higher up the dark sky, flooding the entire cove in a pale, cold light, and maybe, if one listens closely, it's there in the murmur of the waves and the swaying of the tall dried grass, written in the patterns of seaweed and pebbles in the sand – the words neither of them will ever say, the words they will only ever get close to, but resort to arguing before they can truly mean anything they let out of their mouths. The story of a man who wrote a book, and the man who told him how to do it. The story of a man who moved closer to the sea, even though he'd never been there before in his life, and the man who'd spent his entire life sailing it, but could never return there again. The story of a man alive, and a man long gone, who'd missed each other only by a handful of years – the story of the ghost, and Mister Baggins. The story that, for all intents and purposes, might only be at its very beginning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man okay here we go! Only three chapters to go, and this one ends on such a... well, final note, mostly because of where the next one will find Thorin and Bilbo. You'll see :D Hope you all enjoyed it, your feedback has been absolutely amazing and encouraging! :')


	10. Chapter 10

_My dear Bilbo,_

 

_isn't it curious, how time flies? It feels like yesterday since you first wrote to me, since you first sent me the beginnings of your book, or your excellent shortbread recipe. Years pass quicker the older we get, I believe. My sons, for example, don't understand yet, I don't think – they are angry with me still, on occasion, for not telling them about Thorin earlier. For abandoning him, and never worrying about him until it was too late. They are not wrong, but I have long since realized that one mustn't wallow in one's past mistakes for too long – only work hard at not repeating them in the future._

_And with that, I admit I am worried about you – spending so much time alone at Oak Cottage only leads to dark thoughts, and I'm sure my brother would confirm that. Our children grow up faster than we can see, and letting them go is about the most difficult thing that life with them has to offer. I know Frodo loves you immensely, and will always be grateful for what you did for him, offering him a childhood free of any more tragedies – but like you said, he is not eleven anymore, and I speak from experience when I implore you not to be too surprised if he decides one day that he desires more out of life than staying put._

_We were young once, too, and longing for adventure – you once told me yourself that the culmination of your adventures was finding Oak Cottage, after all. One certainty of life is that our children will always leave us – and we must let them – but it is by no means the end of it. You were my support when my Fili was leaving for his studies, and so now I am yours, telling you the same things you told me, years ago – do not isolate yourself. Spend time with your friends, your acquaintances – certainly hold that birthday party you mentioned, it would be a shame to break tradition after all this time. Oh, I only wish I could be there to celebrate with you. You've become my closest friend over these years – and to think it was such a coincidence that brought us together. I'm almost sure my brother would disapprove greatly, may he rest in peace._

_Perhaps one day, I will collect the prospects – and the courage – to travel the distance and visit the cottage again, with or without my boys. Walk that beach once more, hear the cry of seagulls, touch the wood of my old harp, watch the sun set beyond the line of sea on the horizon. When that day comes, I shall finally be able to look you in the eye and thank you for everything that you've done for me, and absolutely dismiss any sort of gratitude of your own – it was you, after all, who put everything in motion, when you decided to write me all those years ago._

_Whenever this may reach you (hopefully in time), let me wish you the happiest of birthdays, my friend, my confidante, my favorite author, and accept this small gift without a word of complaint, if at all possible – you deserve it, and so much more. Oddly enough, and I hope you won't find this too strange, it used to belong to my brother – it was the only thing I had of him all those years, and now it feels like I'm simply sending it back home, where it belongs. Sending it so that one day, hopefully, I may follow it._

_Sincerely yours, always_

 

_Dis Durin_

_August 2 nd, 1914, Paris_

 

Bilbo folds the letter with utmost care, smoothing its surface, long and thorough, before sighing and gazing out of the window, listening for the noises outside, hoping to hear the sound of the porch door clacking open, but to no avail. The sun is still out, after all. But at least Frodo always remembers to come home for supper.

“Any idea which trinket of yours she might be sending me?” he asks out loud, tracing the edges of the small box, no writing on it, not even a pattern or a painting, just plain wood, though rich in color.

He receives no response, but can sense him far too well, all but breathing down his neck, figuratively speaking of course – though apparently, the common courtesy to make oneself presentable is too much to ask for.

He fiddles with the unfamiliar brass mechanism until he manages to get the box open, and on a cushion of somewhat faded blue fabric rests a compass – must be, for there is an engraving of a compass rose on its lid, so delicate and smoothed with time it's almost invisible – but it won't open, no matter what Bilbo tries.

“A little help here?” he grumbles, “it wouldn't do to destroy it, I only just got it.”

“The hoop,” the quiet voice behind him would have startled him years ago, barely so now, “click the little button in it.”

Bilbo tries, and the lid pops open with an unlikely ease – a crack spreads like a thin spiderweb over the glass and the needle is tilted unnaturally, but it's still beautiful, the curved letters signifying the directions painted in bright red, the petals surrounding the center a dusty pink, like a primrose. And on the bottom of the lid, another engraving – a large, looped letter D adorned with delicate spirals like vines growing all around it, and when Bilbo looks closer, the year 1825 etched in tiny numbers below it.

“It used to belong to my grandfather. I thought we'd lost it.”

Thorin gazes at the compass with a largely unreadable expression in his face, but then, he's rarely ever clear – but Bilbo hasn't been watching him for years to fail to recognize emotion when he sees it.

“It's beautiful,” he smiles, “I only wish we had that when we were writing the book, I imagine it would have looked perfect on the cover. Or the first page, anything. To think it's almost a hundred years old!”

Thorin says nothing at all, eyes scanning the letter, re-reading it even though Bilbo recited it to him out loud a mere moment ago – it's become a sort of odd tradition of theirs, and Bilbo only wishes Dis knew that her brother has been there all these years, hearing her words of regret, and of joy, hearing about his nephews growing up.

But then again, it's been _years,_ and somehow, for the most part, Bilbo has also come to terms with the fact that Thorin is exclusively... his. In a way. They spend days without talking, sometimes, days when Bilbo is busy entertaining guests, or Thorin is in one of his moods, or there's simply no need for conversation, and it's difficult to believe, difficult to recall that time years ago, when they were still only getting to know each other, when they spent evening after evening bent over the work desk in the master bedroom, arguing over the details of the Captain's story...

These days, nothing is quite as... intense. Sometimes, Bilbo walks the span of the beach alone, stopping by the derelict pier and tracing the faded letters carved into it, and when he looks up at the house, he sees just that – plain white walls and a dark roof, and the sunlight catching in the lens of the telescope up in his bedroom, a brief brilliant glimmer through all that greenery.

Sometimes, he sits in the rocking chair in the drawing room and hears the gentle plucking of the harp standing close by, and almost manages to convince himself it's just the breeze.

Only he knows he's never alone, not really.

In another version of events, a story that he sometimes considers writing, Thorin would be there to greet him every day, in person, and he'd fumble with the dishes while Bilbo cooked supper, and fixed the faulty plumbing himself, or the wooden railing of the back porch after that one dreadful storm.

In another version of their story, they would have both gotten what they wanted, but maybe this is the only version that would have ever allowed them to meet. And for that, Bilbo is glad.

It is a small miracle, really, that he's managed to keep his cantankerous companion a secret all this time – who would believe him, anyway? He has to tread lightly, maintain a precise number of public appearances and social calls, if he doesn't want to be branded a recluse by the townsfolk, and Frodo worries about him enough as it is, no need to add questions about his sanity to the mix.

Oh, and speak of the devil.

“He's home,” Thorin exhales, and soon after, Bilbo can indeed hear the boy being all noisy downstairs – he places the compass back into its box, shutting it gently and leaving it on his desk, and hurries to the kitchen, only to find his nephew stuffing himself with biscuits he's procured from lord knows where.

“Let those be, they're for the guests,” Bilbo scolds him, and a receives a blinding grin in response.

“Hello, Uncle. Don't worry so much!”

“ _Eats for two, and remains thinner than seaweed,_ ” Thorin comments from his favorite spot by the doorway, and Bilbo almost tut-tuts at him, before stopping himself and fussing around the stove to get things going.

“You're back early. Where are the boys?” he asks, slapping Frodo's hand away, just as he reaches to sneak a taste of the contents of the largest skillet, smelling of cilantro and butter.

“They'll be here soon! Sam will come with Missus Bell, and Merry and Pip are on their way.”

“Alright then,” Bilbo sighs, “I wouldn't want this to start late.”

Dis would certainly find it amusing, he thinks, to discover that her letter has arrived on exactly the birthday party she reminded Bilbo to hold – it's more than a month early this year, as per the boys' suggestion, and the official reason is that Sam and Merry will be leaving for their studies once the summer is over, but Bilbo watches Frodo sitting at the table, legs no longer dangling high up above the floor, his serene, soft features, and thinks that Sam and Merry might not be the only ones to go in the end.

“What have you got there, then?” he asks softly, “who's writing you?”

“Oh, it's... nothing,” Frodo fumbles to fold it, but Bilbo is too quick, intercepting, and eyes darting over the untidy handwriting.

“A poem?” he smiles, “did you write this?”

“No, I... I didn't,” Frodo waves his hand in a gesture that, Bilbo notes with some concern, is very similar to his own, “Sam did. It's for Rosie.”

“Rosie – Cotton?”

“Yes. Only it's... well, you know. Sam. He's better with plants than he is with words. He's asked me to look over it.”

“ _Well, he certainly likes to talk about plants in his poetry, doesn't he_ ,” supplies Thorin, who's been peeking over the lad's shoulder.

“Hmm, I suppose that's what young girls like these days,” Bilbo shrugs, “flowers and... things. Oh, _roses_ – very thoughtful, I'd say.”

“ _Rhyming rose with douse, though?_ ” the Captain chuckles, and it is only after Bilbo snorts a quiet laugh, that he notices Frodo staring at him somewhat curiously.

“What, Uncle?” he demands to know, “remembering _your_ days of writing love poems? Think you can help me with remaking this one into something presentable?”

“ _My_ days of... oh, don't be ridiculous,” Bilbo grumbles, removing himself from the table and returning to the stove, “I don't think I've written a love poem _in my life._ ”

“ _What a shame_ ,” Thorin remarks.

“Shame,” Frodo laughs, “you should! Branch out a little bit. Maybe your next work could be a collection of poems, you know! Wives writing to their _sailors,_ or something.”

“ _Cheeky brat,_ ” Thorin chuckles, while Bilbo grows red in the face.

“And what would make you think I know _anything_ about sailors and their wives, you?” he sputters.

“Well, it's just... you spent so much time with that Captain of yours, I thought you might have learned a thing or two!”

“About _what_ exactly?!” Bilbo huffs, his back still turned to Frodo, lest he sees his mildly horrified expression – as for the Captain in question, he simply seems to be having too much fun to get lost just yet.

“Oh, you know – lovers lost at sea, mourning widows, things like that...”

“Where do you _get_ such ideas?!” Bilbo exclaims, and Thorin is laughing so much the sauce Bilbo is stirring begins bubbling again, the stove acting up.

“Sam says it's what girls like. It's _romantic._ ”

“Cut it out, you,” Bilbo hisses at the Captain, and then continues, louder, “oh yes, I'm sure the boy who rhymes _rose_ with _douse_ knows all about _romance._ For crying out loud. Clear the table, would you?”

“Fine, alright,” Frodo is still giggling, “I _tried_ explaining that you have no interest in that area, but he wouldn't listen...”

“What _area_ are we talking about exactly?” Bilbo sighs, exasperated and not entirely sure he wants to know the answer, as he sets the plates on the table, only just stopping himself from laying down a third one, and Frodo gazes at him silently for a bit, before answering, a tad more seriously: “People are beginning to worry about you, you know.”

“What _people?_ ”

“Just... people. _Unsociable,_ they're calling you. You've been on your own all these years.”

“On my own – I'm not on my own! I've got your hungry mouth to feed, don't I?” Bilbo dismisses him, and Frodo rolls his eyes.

“Yes, yes, I know that, but you... it doesn't _do_ to live all on your lonesome here, so far away from the town, writing your books and never marrying – _not_ my words!”

“And _whose_ words are they, hm?” Bilbo demands sharply, “I bet it was that old wretch Amarantha Grubb, wasn't it. I expect she will never forgive me for refusing to marry her eldest, and I shall never forgive her for trying to set me up.”

“Uncle!” Frodo exclaims, but his eyes are gleaming with amusement – as are the Captain's, following Bilbo's every move.

“What? No, I will not stand for it. You were the only family I ever needed, and you know that,” Bilbo declares firmly, “I have no intention of letting someone else near my kitchen, _or_ my garden.”

“Or your _heart,_ ” Frodo sings, already reaching hungrily for the pot full of buttered potatoes.

“Oh, hush you. There was simply never any time for all that nonsense. There was never any...” Bilbo's voice falters when he meets with the gaze of sky blue eyes, Thorin having grown quiet and standing calmly by the door, and he finishes on a somewhat quiet note, “...need.”

“I know,” Frodo smiles, and it is in moments like these that Bilbo still sees him as the little boy he'd brought here all that time ago, barely talking, simply watching thoughtfully, listening... It's only natural, he thinks, for him to have grown into such a vibrant young man – it's what Bilbo has wanted for him all this time, after all.

“You're still going to throw that party though, aren't you?” he asks, all excited, and Bilbo sighs raggedly, but not without a smile of his own.

“You sound just like Dis. I suppose I must.”

“Oh, is she coming?” Frodo perks up, “it's high time we met her, don't you think?”

“I do think,” Bilbo agrees, “but can you see here anywhere, you ninny? I'm afraid she couldn't make it just yet.”

“Hmm,” Frodo pouts, but it never lasts him long, “maybe next year, then! Maybe she'll decide to stay, and you won't be so alone anymore-”

“Oh would you _cut it out,_ you troublesome little – go change, you look dreadful,” Bilbo scolds him, to no avail, since he only laughs more and more – Bilbo punishes him by attempting to straighten out his collar and make him squirm.

“You don't have to worry about me so much, you know,” he grumbles, and Frodo snorts in disbelief.

“Of course I do. If I don't, you'll end up sitting in your study for _days_ without talking to a soul, or gardening until you drop.”

“Now, what's wrong with a little bit of gardening?” Bilbo defends himself, “keeps the herbs on the table, you know!”

“And whatever would we do without our herbs,” Frodo declares gravely, and Bilbo proceeds to swat him over the top of his head, albeit gently – but then his sight is stolen away by Thorin, who watches on with a strange fondness in his eyes still, half hidden in the shadows in the far corner of the kitchen, and Bilbo is suddenly overcome with the need to invite him closer, for him to sit down with them and share their meal, as if that'll ever be possible... At least until Frodo retaliates in kind, his jab in Bilbo's ribs much more noticeable, that's for sure.

“Oi – you! Watch your table manners!”

“See, this is what I'm talking about, Uncle,” Frodo scolds him, “you staring into space and looking all...”

“All...?” Bilbo beckons him to finish, albeit with a healthy dose of irony.

“Pensive. And sad, when you don't think I can't see you.”

For that, Bilbo doesn't really have a suitable answer ready quickly enough, and Frodo merely watches, like he's just won some argument they didn't even have.

“What exactly do I have to be sad _about?_ ” Bilbo counters at last, and his nephew sighs heavily, like Bilbo is the immature one in this conversation.

“I don't know, Uncle. But you would tell me, if you did, right?”

“Would I... Frodo,” Bilbo exhales, and the genuine concern in his boy's eyes concerns _him_ – has he really managed to make Frodo worry _this much?_

“I'm alright,” he declares, with as much conviction as he can muster, and out of the corner of his eye, he can spot Thorin watching him still. “I'm anything but miserable, you _know that,_ don't you?”

Frodo inclines his head, his smile a bit uncertain, and Bilbo pats his arm briefly, ruffling his hair like he used to when he was just a boy, which is always guaranteed to make him grin.

“It's very sweet of you to worry, but spend more time fussing over _yourself_ than your Uncle, alright? I'm not lonely, _or_ alone.”

Frodo stares some more, chewing his bottom lip in a thoughtful tick that is so similar to his mother's, even though he'll never know, and then he shrugs, beaming at Bilbo effortlessly.

“If you say so,” he laughs.

“I do say so,” Bilbo huffs, “now, is that barking I hear?”

Frodo perks up, all but jumping to his feet and hurrying outside, to greet his friends – Bilbo sighs fondly, and gazes out of the window – gunmetal grey clouds threaten to ruin the fun even before it starts, traveling across the sky lazily, dragging their heavy bellies filled with rain along, and later on, Bilbo will think that perhaps this is where it all started, the beginning of the end – that very last fated birthday party.

It's yet another habit he's established over the years, mostly thanks to his friends forcing their well wishes on him when first they found out about his birthday, until he relented and decided that there might as well be some food to go along with it.

Since then, he's been inviting a carefully selected group of people – who seem to grow in number each year despite his best efforts, though – and if the Captain objects to the garden of the cottage filling with guests every now and then, he keeps it to himself.

“ _Won't start until late at night,_ ” Thorin assures him, still standing by his side, and it takes Bilbo a moment to realize he's talking about the weather. All the commotion sort of happens _around_ him, as always – whenever he shows up for Bilbo with other people around, it's as if everyone subconsciously decides to avoid the space he's in, like an unlucky step you skip when walking down the stairs, or the spot just out of the field of your vision that your mind is telling you not to look at, out of some primal fear of what you might come to see.

“If you say so,” Bilbo sighs, “I'd hate for it to ruin the pastries.”

The commotion really begins then, and he barricades himself in the kitchen, getting everything ready, slapping Merry's hand away from the bowls overflowing with biscuits and poppy-seed cakes on the table, and reminding Pippin that if he dares step over the threshold of the pantry one more time, he'll end up banned from the house for good... The truth is, he's come to love all these boys almost as much as he loves Frodo over the years, and having them all around reminds him very much of when he himself was growing up, with his countless cousins and other relatives. Sometimes he misses that, and sometimes he even ponders sending a letter addressed to one Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, but then he's always reminded that the only two times she ever bothered him after he moved here were at the very beginning, doubting that very decision, and then shortly after his book came out, wondering about a loan and cleverly disguising it as this or that sum Bilbo had forgotten to pay where his father's property had been concerned.

No, he's found new family here, and he's better off for it.

Amidst his hundredth absentminded rearranging of this or that collection of pies in their bowls, his gaze rests on Thorin, standing as he always does, by the door, his own eyes, though aimed at the table, mostly unfocused, as if he's watching something only he can see.

“What is it?” Bilbo asks casually enough, moving on to the stove to stir the sauce getting ready in his best skillet, but still hoping to catch the Captain's attention before he disappears into thin air once again – that's what usually happens when he gets this look on his face.

“How long has it been?” Thorin asks quietly, almost as if he's just muttering to himself.

“Since...?”

“Since you came here.”

“Five... no, six. The august of 1907. Time flies, doesn't it?”

“Your tree hasn't grown.”

“...Excuse me?” Bilbo looks at him over his shoulder, to see him glaring out of the window now, with an intensity of someone simmering with anger.

“Your tree,” Thorin repeats sternly, not affording him a single glance, “the one you planted instead of mine. It never grew.”

“Well, of course it didn't!” Bilbo laughs, “I told you, the seed had long since dried up. That was _years ago,_ though! Why are you remembering it now?”

“Was it?” Thorin exhales, like the quiet rustling of leaves outside, “years ago? I don't...”

“Yes, my first spring here, remember?” Bilbo reminds him gently, “we were right in the middle of writing the book.”

“The book,” Thorin repeats numbly, eyes still wide, still staring at a horizon that isn't there, “yes, of course. The book.”

“I told you when I was planting it,” Bilbo recalls with a smile, stirring the sauce in languid circles, “I had no hopes for it actually growing. But I had taken it from the oak that-”

“That grew over your childhood home,” Thorin finishes for him, quietly, almost desperately.

“Yes. My mother always used to say-”

“ _Plant a tree, after you've stopped running._ ”

A shudder dances up Bilbo's spine, for he could swear he almost heard her voice instead of Thorin's, softer, gentler, laughter like the tinkling of a hundred little bells.

“Yes,” he dismisses it and smiles at the Captain instead, “see, you remember just fine.”

Thorin's lips move wordlessly for a moment, his eyes large and almost frightened, before he swallows it all with a huff, straightening up and marching to stand by the table, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders ramrod straight, and Bilbo simply leaves him to it. He's seen this happen before, countless times, more often these days – he doesn't suppose _ghosts_ can grow old, not in the traditional sense of the word anyway, since Thorin looks exactly the same as the first day Bilbo met him, not a single wrinkle more than how he's depicted on his painting, but sometimes he thinks...

Sometimes he's reading in his armchair in the bedroom, and a metal creak will interrupt his peace, and he sees the telescope moving, tilting, as if there lays some land yet undiscovered outside their windows, and has to actually speak up for Thorin to remember to show himself.

Sometimes, Bilbo hears him reciting passages from the book, from his own story, even though he's nowhere in sight, and sometimes he finds him on the beach, talking to someone who isn't there.

Every now and then, Thorin calls him or Frodo by another name, and sometimes, he simply doesn't respond at all, as if he indeed is nothing more than an echo of his former self – and it is in moments like those that Bilbo realizes he's been forgetting as well.

“Now, nevermind all that,” he declares now, through a mouthful of sauce, “ _this_ is delicious! Remember, just a couple of weeks ago, I didn't think I could get the cilantro to grow at all, and look at this! It's so strong! Here, you have to taste it-”

He swirls around with the wooden spoon at the ready, to bring it up to Thorin's mouth, and it takes him far too long to realize what he's just done – Thorin stares, perfectly attentive now, blinks once, twice.

“I can't,” he reminds Bilbo plainly, his voice soft and his eyes somber, the color of the sea at dusk now in the dim lighting of the kitchen.

“Oh,” Bilbo exhales, feeling incredibly nauseous all of a sudden, “oh, of course. Of course you can't. Silly me, oh my goodness. Here, let me, um...”

He turns away swiftly, busying himself around the stove, and a good thing too – he feels Thorin's scorching gaze on him, and knows he would not be able to withstand it very long, _or_ continue talking much longer with that painful lump in his throat.

“Silly me,” he repeats feebly, and what he hears might be a roll of thunder from somewhere very far away, or just his heart beating heavily.

“Bilbo-” the Captain begins, but before he can say any more, a loud call comes from Merry or Pippin: “Master Bilbo! The Gamgees are here! And, uh... Someone else, too!”

Bilbo is jolted back into sensible action by that, fortunately, and hurries to switch off the stove, wiping his hands on the nearest dishcloth, thinking about everything, _anything_ else than the presence of his Captain still close by.

“What do you mean, someone else?” he calls back, “hold on, I'm coming! Is Frodo welcoming them?”

Frodo is indeed, and Bilbo's heart flutters when he sees a rather fashionable motor car parking by the Gamgees' wagon – he's almost too busy keeping Merry and Pippin from ogling it up close, to notice those who clamber out of it. But if he had any doubt, Frodo's loud 'Gandalf!' explains everything rather quickly.

He's visited them countless times over the years, almost always turning up unannounced, almost never explaining why, but Bilbo has been glad for his company nevertheless – he always brings with him stories from lands so far away that Bilbo and Frodo can only imagine them in their wildest dreams, and simply seems very interested in the inhabitants of Oak Cottage in general.

Thorin doesn't like him one bit, though, never sticks around when the man is staying – even now, Bilbo shoots a worried look at the house back over his shoulder, but then the taste of their previous encounter not a moment ago still lingers bitter on his tongue, and so he leaves it be.

“Gandalf!” he exclaims, “what a surprise! What brings you here?”

“Aside from your birthday?” the man laughs, deciding whether he should shake Bilbo's hand or prevent the breeze from carrying his fashionable hat away.

“We _did_ send him an invitation,” Frodo reminds Bilbo, grinning from ear to ear – he's grown very fond of Gandalf and his tales, no doubt strengthened by the fact that the man has never failed to bring him a little something from his travels.

“That's true, we did...” Bilbo muses, “though I wasn't sure at all that it would reach you, what with you having a different address every month.”

“Well, it did reach me, dear boy, and I couldn't be happier to be here,” Gandalf counters, finally shaking his hand, and Bilbo certainly won't be leading the conversation with that, but he notices how much older he looks – it's been a couple of months since they saw him last, and his eyes, though gleaming, are sunken, even more wrinkles fanning out around them, if that's even possible, and he's certainly leaning on his cane heavier than Bilbo ever remembers him to be.

“Don't you have tables to prepare?” he reminds Frodo, who'd much rather spend his time jumping around Gandalf like a very excited puppy, and after the boys scurry off, he escorts the man to the house himself, his curiosity taking over after all, making him ask a concerned: “Are you alright?”

“Fine, dear chap, just fine,” Gandalf rumbles, and when Bilbo scowls at him, he adds, “it's not exactly news to bring to a birthday party. I'll tell you later.” And Bilbo doesn't get another word of it out of him.

And besides, he has a birthday party to orchestrate. Lately, Frodo and the boys have taken it upon themselves to help a great deal, but even they are more excited about all the food – and in some cases, the company of certain families with beautiful daughters of age – than anything else, and Bilbo happily leaves them to it.

At least the weather behaves, just like Thorin has predicted – a pleasant breeze makes the leaves of the tall elms sing, and the garden quickly fills with people, quicker than Bilbo and Frodo and the boys can greet them in person, quicker than they can bring out all the food.

Among the last to arrive is Bard – Mister Bowman, that is, Bilbo's publisher, and, over the years, a friend as well. He has a sizable family of tree lovely children, and if he has any reservation about his eldest daughter shuffling off after Merry and Pippin, her brother and sister following her with no less enthusiasm, he doesn't voice them, simply seems to be relieved to have a place to sit and catch his breath.

“Professor Grey, fancy seeing you here,” he sighs (even through all these years, Bilbo has had trouble figuring out _how exactly_ the two know each other), “I thought you'd be busy in Germany, preventing some international disaster.”

“International _disaster?_ ” Bilbo repeats, piece of mince pie stuck halfway to his mouth.

“That's long since been out of my hands, I'm afraid,” Gandalf smiles amicably, but his next words carry a sharper edge that's very easy to miss, if one isn't as curious as Bilbo, “and like I said to Bilbo, it's hardly birthday-time conversation.”

“Oh, no no, I'd love to hear about... whatever it is that you now do, apparently,” Bilbo waves his hand, crumbs flying, “it's _my_ birthday, I think it's only fair I decide what we talk about!”

Gandalf and Bard share the same slightly amused look, but before the intriguing conversation can progress any further, some commotion catches Bilbo's attention – and lo and behold, not _all_ aspects of his party are under his reign.

The cake is massive, and delicious, and Bell Gamgee preens as Bilbo praises it and scolds everyone for being too nice to him in the same breath, and there's laughter, and there's Beorn's mead and Missus Bolger's fruit punch to drink, and both get into everyone's heads equally quickly.

The sun travels lower and lower down the overcast sky, coloring it in rich hues of a late dusk, and conversation flows – Bilbo feels full, and contented, and like doing nothing else but flinging his feet up on the bench and accommodating everyone who sees it fit to talk to him, which is probably why he doesn't notice anything wrong at first, and almost topples off said bench when he does.

Thorin is there among the crowd, having appeared out of nowhere, tall and black and very much _out of place,_ and Bilbo chokes on the punch he's drinking and looks this way and that, to confirm that he really is the only one seeing him.

He scrambles to his feet and marches over to him, but the Captain pays him no attention whatsoever – no, instead he seems to be very interested in whatever Gandalf and Mister Bowman are discussing, hovering nearby and _glaring_ with such an intensity that it alone surely must give him away.

And if one were to simply not care very much, they wouldn't notice anything odd about those two particular guests, just two more men in a merry conversation, but the closer Bilbo gets, the clearer it becomes, the troubled frown creasing Gandalf's brow, the tight set of Bard's jaw.

“Are you gentlemen enjoying yourselves?” Bilbo butts in overly cheerfully, sending a warning look in Thorin's direction, who utterly ignores it, eyes wide and furious, piercing Gandalf.

“Quite,” the man attempts to dismiss Bilbo easily enough.

“ _They know about my ship,_ ” the Captain utters under his breath, standing by Bilbo's side now, but never ceasing to stare at the two.

“They wh- well, um. Are you sure?” Bilbo asks both his visible and invisible companions.

“Yes, yes, perfectly fine,” Gandalf smiles, “a lovely party so far, Bilbo.”

“It really is,” Bard agrees, somewhat distracted, scanning the crowd, no doubt for his children.

“ _Ask them about it,_ ” Thorin murmurs, his voice barely louder than the breeze and the chatter, “ _please._ ”

Bilbo senses more than sees him fading, and suddenly, the idea of him disappearing is about the least pleasing thing about today – they've spent years with his story, and they came to terms with the fact that some truths would simply never be revealed. _Thorin himself_ has stated on several occasions that what's done is done, that even if he did find out what happened to his crew and ship after his death, it wouldn't really matter... But right now, Bilbo feels somewhat angry on his behalf, because surely, the same Bard and Gandalf, who have _both_ been nudging him to write another novel, find out more about 'his mysterious Captain', would not hesitate to tell him if they discovered any new information... would they?

“You know,” he declares, sitting on a chair nearby, ignoring the concerned looks they very secretively exchange, “I've been thinking about writing some more after all.”

“Oh?” his publisher cocks an eyebrow.

“Indeed? That's wonderful,” Gandalf smiles, but there's no conviction behind it, and Bilbo glares from one to the other highly suspiciously.

“Yes. Perhaps a memoir, of sorts. Titled something along the lines of ' _The Many Birthday Parties I Spent Wondering What People Were Whispering Behind My Back'._ _What_ is going on?”

Yet another concerned look exchanged, and Thorin now standing so close by Bilbo's side that he can almost sense him – if there were anything to sense, anyway.

“...Alright,” Gandalf sighs at long last, having reached some sort of decision, apparently, “but I did warn you, it's not a very birthday dinner sort of conversation.”

“Carry on,” Bilbo says firmly, simply raising his hand in an acknowledgment when he hears someone calling his name from across the garden.

“I told you once that the records which would allow me to find out what happened to your Captain's ship were sealed to my eyes,” Gandalf starts broadly, “and you said that what we knew so far was enough. That Captain Durin had decided to resign his career after the unsuccessful battle of Velacruz near the coast of Spain in...”

“1902,” Bilbo supplies mechanically.

“Yes. And you see, when the book came out, we didn't think anyone from the actual Navy would particularly care for it...”

“Which they didn't, until very recently,” Mister Bowman continues.

“I don't understand.”

“I received a very strange letter some weeks ago,” Bard explains, “stamped with the official seal of Her Majesty's Royal Navy and everything.”

“And in it...?” Bilbo asks tensely, very much aware of the wind rising just a tad, Thorin's hands clenched into fists.

“A complaint... of sorts,” Bard gazes at Gandalf again, as if seeking guidance – the old man simply nods, and takes over smoothly: “Apparently, since you mentioned very many _real_ names and events in your book, the Navy took notice.”

“Are we – am I in trouble, then?” Bilbo gasps, but then it occurs to him, “took them long enough.”

“Indeed,” Gandalf chuckles, “and no, you're not. They simply saw it fit to point out some... inaccuracies.”

Bilbo can't help it, he glances at Thorin, who for his part appears somewhere halfway between flabbergasted and furious.

“Inaccuracies,” Bilbo repeats dryly.

“Yes,” Bard notes, “not through any fault of yours – you only told a story you deduced from whatever materials you discovered here, and a compelling story it was.”

“Then what did I get wrong?” Bilbo breathes out, all commotion, food and other company forgotten.

“You painted your Captain in such a positive light,” Gandalf tells him almost apologetically, “we wouldn't want you to-”

“Oh, just tell me, would you,” Bilbo retorts, perhaps a bit too harshly.

“How did you describe him leaving the Navy behind, along with his ship and crew?” Bard inclines his head.

“Uh... Just like Gandalf said, he'd resigned his post after the battle of Velacruz. I don't expect I'll ever be able to find out what _really_ happened there-”

“What happened there,” Gandalf says softly, “was Captain Durin defying direct orders and leading not only his own ship and crew, but half the fleet with him, into peril. The records remain sealed, but one thing is certain – he was dishonorably discharged after that.”

“Dishonorably – what now?” Bilbo gapes.

“ _Bilbo-_ ”

“It means that he had his rank stripped from him, and-”

“Yes, I know what _dishonorably discharged_ means, I think,” Bilbo interrupts Gandalf, “what I _don't know_ is how this has managed to _slip my mind._ ”

“You couldn't have possibly known,” Gandalf frowns.

A gust of wind tears through the garden, tablecloths flapping, hands flying to secure hats from flying away.

“ _It's not all how it seems-_ ”

“Oh, really?” Bilbo huffs, standing up, directing the next question at both Thorin and the other two, “tell me, what happened to the ship?”

“ _I have no way of knowing, that's why I wanted_ you _to find out!_ ”

“Long since destroyed.”

The sudden silence is suffocating. Not a single leaf or a blade of grass flutters, the wind ceasing, even the chatter subsiding – Captain Durin stares in the midst of it all, eyes the color of his beloved sea, large and blue and shocked beyond compare.

“What?” Bilbo breathes out, incapable of anything louder than that, “h-how?”

“A common practice,” Gandalf explains, “they would have offered her to another Captain, let her remain a part of the fleet, but she had long since been rendered obsolete by the newer metal ships. She would have been sunk, or alternatively anchored in some harbor somewhere as a spare, but before either of that could happen, she was sent on one last mission, apparently, a low risk, guarding a merchant fleet – the Captain who led her was someone fresh out of training, and was supposed to learn his ropes with her, but they never made port; the fleet or its guard. It might have been a storm, or pirates, no one can say, and I expect no one in the Navy much cares for her fate, since they were already planning on scrapping her anyway-”

“ _Traitors!_ ”

This time, the wind is much more violent, and a loud crack and pop echoes through the garden, startling some into gasping – Bilbo sees that the window to the master bedroom has flown open.

“Sorry, sorry everyone,” he speaks up loudly and far too brightly, “I suppose the weather isn't as stable as we might have hoped, is it? Let me just... Frodo?”

He motions to his nephew, who simply nods and takes over the job of herding his friends and carrying whatever is redundant, back inside.

Thorin is nowhere in sight, and Bilbo pays no mind to Gandalf and Bard anymore, only hurries to the house, his heart tolling like a bell.

“Calm down, please...” he breathes out.

_No!,_ the wind roars,  _they took away everything! Everything from me! Do you think I chose to be discharged?! You think it was my fault, don't you?!_

“I don't know _what_ to think, Thorin-”

Bilbo reaches for the latch of the porch door, but it remains stubbornly closed.

“Let me in, you stubborn ox!” he hisses.

_You think I deserved it, don't you?!,_ the branches of the elms sway and croak.

“Don't be ridiculous, I don't think that-”

_You do! You do, just like all the rest of them! Traitors!_

“Thorin...” Bilbo pleads with him, tugging at the door handle, but a part of him already knows it'll be no use – the sky grows darker by the second, and the guests are getting distressed, some standing up, watching the horizon with concern and fright.

_Traitors, all of you!_

The first roll of thunder is a deep rumble, and Bilbo shudders, while everyone else yelps, and the true commotion begins – the door gives way at long last, with a strong waft of wind seemingly coming from  _inside_ the house, and Bilbo almost trips over his own feet.

“Stop this!” he calls, not really caring if anyone hears him, “settle down!”

But Thorin isn't listening anymore, because he isn't inside the house anymore –  the roar of the wind carries his voice, the clouds swirling overhead and obscuring the sun unnaturally fast are all his rage and betrayal.

The guests swarm like confused ants, some of them having enough wherewithal to help Frodo and the boys carry some of the trays with food inside – Beorn grabs two long benches at once, one under each arm, and marches towards the house, aided by his barking dog.

The first heavy drops of rain splatter on the swiftly emptying tables, and before anyone can say a peep, the storm is upon them, a heavy drumming on the roof, and though Bilbo and Frodo beckon everyone to come inside, not many heed their call – Bilbo watches families hurrying to their coaches mindlessly, and wonders if he is the only one who can hear the voice in the wind, the cries of anger and resentment, wordless but no less chilling, pointless but no less powerful.

The sky is torn apart, rain pouring down on them, and Frodo shouts at Bilbo to stay inside, but he doesn't listen, of course he doesn't listen – he keeps dashing back and forth for more of his precious bowls and trays and plates, all the while hoping that he might see him, see Thorin and get near him, talk to him, calm him down... to no avail whatsoever.

It's as if the sea itself has decided to drown Oak Cottage whole, and they can hear the roof leaking, they can see the water streaming in on the veranda, and they can do nothing but mourn the handful of forgotten chairs and tablecloths the wind has caught and carried away.

There's the boys and Beorn, all dripping wet in Bilbo's kitchen after having bravely rescued all the tables, and there's Gandalf gazing out of the window with a quiet curiosity, and Bofur, who immediately begins assessing the damage to the roof he's been tending to all these years, and Bard and his children, and a handful others, and Bilbo keeps apologizing and apologizing to them – some of them leave the second the rain becomes less of a solid wall, and some of them, those closest to Bilbo, stay overnight, and it is the strangest birthday party he's ever had.

Sleep eludes him no matter how hard he tries, and every now and then bright lightning cleaves the sky, even though the rain has calmed down into a quiet pitter-patter, and he lays with his duvet all the way up under his chin, listening to the boys' quiet laughter and chatter coming from Frodo's room, and the beams creaking and whining, and tries to hear  _him,_ but fails.

“Thorin,” he whispers into the dark, time and time again, “Thorin, please.”

But the house is quiet, and it feels like it's always been only Bilbo and Frodo there, as if it's been deserted all these years, the stone of the walls cold, the painting staring at Bilbo from across the room just that, a painting.

The morning is far too quiet, the sky wild and the air much colder than they'd anticipated, and they few stand on the veranda, munching on yesterday's leftovers and watching the desolation quite desperately – branches broken off, grass flattened by hail here and there, the rose bushes ruined mercilessly. Bilbo bids farewell to those returning home, without continuing yesterday's conversation with Bard and Gandalf, and with the help of Beorn, Merry, Pippin and Bofur, Frodo and him begin cleaning up and repairing whatever they can, ever so slowly, and Bilbo tries his very best not to let the silence unnerve him too much.

“Are you alright?' Frodo asks him privately nevertheless, “you look pale. Have you caught a cold?”

“Oh, it's you fussing over _me_ now, is it?” Bilbo teases, but when the lad's worried gaze doesn't subside, he sighs, reassuring him, “I'm fine. You?”

“Sam should have been back by now,” his nephew points out, “he promised he'd bring some new tablecloths from his Mam.”

“Oh, dear Missus Bell. That's very kind of her, but I don't think – oh, see, there he goes now.”

And indeed it is the Gamgees' wagon rattling to the gate, and Sam jumps off it and hurries up to them.

“Slept warm, did you?” Pippin teases him, referring to him escorting Rosie and her family home yesterday before the storm hit in full, but Sam ignores him completely – Bilbo and Frodo both notice he is paler than usual, his round, honest face all worried.

“What's wrong, lad?” Bilbo asks him.

“It's the talk of the whole town today!” Sam says breathlessly, as if he's run here, not driven a coach.

“What is?” Frodo gapes.

“Something happened in – in one of them lands in the east, some important person or other got killed, and everyone's started kicking up a fuss about it, and now...”

“And now?” Bilbo nudges him gently.

“We're at war, Da says!” Sam exclaims, “Britain's at war!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BA-DUN-DUNNN there we go! Thorin being a fading forgetful angered ghost was difficult but entertaining to write, so I hope you liked it, guys! Can't believe it's almost over D:


	11. Chapter 11

Neither of them have to say a word to know that Frodo will be leaving soon. Bilbo doesn't see him for hours, days on end, sometimes comes by him and his friends in Bell's store, grim frowns and quiet words so unsuited to their young faces, and _knows._

And yet, when Frodo takes his hands in his own one morning, and tells him, voice unwavering and sky blue eyes sadder than ever, that he's made his decision, Bilbo's heart screams to plead with him to stay. But he doesn't.

“You're too young,” he murmurs instead, hanging his head, Frodo's pale slender fingers at such a contrast with Bilbo's own, scraped and calloused after the years and years of learning to work with his hands.

“I'll be fine,” Bilbo can only hear the encouraging smile in Frodo's voice, because he daren't look up just yet, “I'll have the lads with me. I'll write to you, as much as I can.”

Bilbo gathers enough courage to look into his eyes at long last, and feels so very old all of a sudden, faced with his hopeful smile and smooth, handsome features – he's aged so very little, in Bilbo's warped opinion. He's still the little boy clutching onto his hand the first time they stepped through the gate and looked up at Oak Cottage together, and Bilbo can't bear the thought of abandoning that boy, sending him off to a world full of peril, without any guarantee whatsoever that he'll ever see him again...

“You'd better,” he says hoarsely, “or I'll pack up here and follow you, just you wait.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Uncle,” Frodo laughs, and it is the most cheerful laughter, the one that Bilbo has always loved, and he tries to etch it into his memory, to conjure it up later.

“You're staying put,” Frodo continues, with the softest smile, but Bilbo can recognize just how serious he is, “how else would I know where to send my letters? Who would tend to the herb garden, hmm? You're a better gardener than you are a soldier.”

“And you were neither, the last time I checked,” Bilbo chuckles, but his voice betrays him at the end, and he hangs his head again, wondering if the dull, heavy ache in his throat that makes it difficult for him to swallow, _or_ draw breath, will ever really go away now.

“I'll be fine,” Frodo repeats, “I promise. Who knows, maybe the war will be over before I even finish training!”

“Wouldn't that be lucky,” Bilbo laughs wryly.

 

It simply doesn't feel like enough – the years that they've spent here. Frodo deserves a lifetime of peace, of having a safe haven to come home to, and now, the world is forcing him to grow up too fast and leave all that behind, and Bilbo feels like he should have either seen it coming, or prepared him better for it. Like he hasn't done enough, and like he might never get the time to do enough, ever again.

The morning of Frodo's departure, the skies clear and the sun climbs up high surprisingly fast, the calm surface of the sea glittering in its glow, the air warm, but carrying the promise of a stormy autumn with it. Bilbo fusses endlessly, packing enough provisions to feed the entire battalion Frodo will be joining, busying himself around the house in any manner possible, to take his mind off the inevitable.

It is when he makes a stop in his room to get the lad some paper and charcoal to write with, that his eyes rest on the small wooden box, the brass lock of its lid glinting at him innocently – he gently takes out the compass Dis had sent him, and gazes at it, long and pensive, before Frodo calls after him with something, and he closes his fingers around it and goes to find his nephew.

He finds him in his own room, standing before his bed with his back turned to the door, and the sunlight streaming in makes the crisp white linen of his bed blaze with an almost ethereal golden haze – he looks like a painting, or yet another ghost, in danger of fading any second now, and Bilbo watches him silently for a moment, doing his very best to memorize that picture.

“Frodo,” he murmurs gently, “time to go.”

It is then that his nephew turns to him with a start, as if he's only just noticed he isn't alone, and his eyes, beautiful and huge, are brimming with tears, though he smiles even as Bilbo gasps and hurries to reach for him.

“I'm just-” he starts, feeble and _really_ sounding his age, but before he can finish his sentence, Bilbo envelops him in an embrace.

“I know, my dear boy,” he whispers into the riot of his dark curls, “I know.”

“We have to go,” Frodo sniffs feebly, but he doesn't seem to want to let go of Bilbo, clutching fistfuls of his shirt.

“We do,” Bilbo nods firmly, soothing his back, then, remembering, “come here. I have something for you.”

“What is it?” Frodo wonders, his voice still wobbly as he rubs at his eyes.

“This,” Bilbo opens his hand, cradling the compass carefully, “Dis sent it to me, and I want you to take it with you.”

“...Are you sure?” Frodo inclines his head, frowning even though his eyes are still gleaming, “it looks so fragile. And it's broken.”

“It'll still help you come back to me,” Bilbo opts for a gently scolding tone, which is guaranteed to bring a smile to his boy's face at least – he even laughs lightly, and Bilbo can't help but wonder if this is the last time he'll be hearing that sound for a while.

“Alright then,” Frodo sighs, and as he reaches for the compass, Bilbo cradles his hand in both of his.

“Come back to me,” he repeats, his throat dry and his voice tired, but no less firm, and Frodo can't but nod.

And from then on, it's walking with him to Dale to get him to meet with his friends, and watching them get on a train, and watching that train disappear off in the distance; and it's supporting a weeping Bell Gamgee, and assuring her and every other mother who has sent her son, and very often, husband too, to dangers unknown, that it will all be over before they know it, and at some point, he realizes he's long since stopped feeling grief. He's simply shut it off, and he walks back from Dale to his cottage alone, up until he hears the familiar barking of a dog, and is joined by him and the shepherd, who for his part seems incredibly concerned in his very gruff way. And Bilbo manages to convince him that he's going to be fine, thank you very much, it's kind of you to worry, and offers to invite him in for tea, not in the least surprised when he declines, and waves him off and watches him and his dog disappear off up the hillock, and it is only when he stands alone in his completely silent kitchen, that he realizes that his heart has been pounding this entire time.

“Well,” he says softly, his own voice sounding foreign to him, “it seems like it's just you and me.”

He receives absolutely no answer, but then, he didn't expect it to be otherwise.

And yet, a quiet 'Thorin' slips past his lips, and it is then, listening for a while for any odd creak and hum of the house, and finally realizing he really _is_ utterly alone, sitting on his bench in his small cold kitchen, that Bilbo weeps at last.

 

-

 

_Dearest Dis,_

 

_thank you for your letter and your gift, and apologies for not writing to you earlier – I expect you know the reason to that already. Time does fly, and perhaps we only ever realize it when we start losing things, suddenly panicking over all that time we've wasted, never enjoyed properly. It took my nephew only a couple of weeks to learn of the army recruiting, and decide to volunteer alongside his friends, and as I am left alone here, I can't help but think back on the years we've spent together at Oak Cottage. They flew by in such a hurry._

_You were absolutely right – letting our children go is the most difficult thing, but I must say I was beginning to come to terms with Frodo leaving of his own volition, for an adventure of his own. But not like this. I don't know how news travel in France, but here, no one will tell us much about the progress of the war, and I fear it may be a long time before I see or hear from Frodo again. Winter is swift approaching, and the idea of spending it at Oak Cottage utterly alone, no matter how attached to the house I am, doesn't fill me with much confidence, or joy._

_I hope you don't mind, but I gave the compass you sent me to Frodo, to keep him company, and always remind him to return home – it is a silly notion, but I couldn't send him out into the world without some sort of tether to me, to this house._

_I sincerely hope you are well – I don't know much about the situation in France, I must admit, and I understand if it will take you some time to respond. I am worried about your sons, though I never met them – they are quite the adventurous souls themselves, are they not? Please be safe, all of you – I'll be keeping you in my thoughts._

_Sincerely yours_

 

_Bilbo Baggins_

_October 5 th, 1914, Oak Cottage, Dale_

 

-

 

Thorin hasn't spoken to him ever since that blasted birthday party, and in his heart of hearts, Bilbo is beginning to doubt he ever did, and worry he never will again. His publisher sent him a copy of the letter he'd received from the Navy, even though Bilbo never asked for it, and it has lain unopened in the top drawer of his desk for weeks and weeks.

He's tried. He has tried speaking to Thorin, asking him what's wrong, convincing him that he, Bilbo, believes that whatever has happened to him wasn't his fault, but it's as if some invisible line has been passed – his spirit is hardly at peace, Bilbo knows, because he hears him complaining in the attic, and he hears the plucking of the harp every now and then when he's coming from the market, seconds before he enters the door... Catches Thorin in passing out of the corner of his eye, nothing but one more fleeting shadow, but it's as if all the anger was too much for him.

Bilbo remembers him explaining that if he meddles with things too much, makes his presence... tangible, so to speak, for too long, it tires him out, and so he attempts to let that idea lull him into complacency – Thorin is merely regaining his strength, and will be back with him soon. Surely.

But autumn returns in full, with its strong winds and cold mornings, and unprecedented showers, and the house is quiet, too quiet now that Bilbo truly is alone.

The first letter from Frodo, he reads out loud, sitting in his rocking chair wrapped in at least two sweaters and a blanket while the rain drenches the cliffs outside, and imagines Thorin standing next to him and gazing out of the window, offering a reassuring comment or two.

Frodo is being treated well, even though the food is apparently dreadful and the training harsh, but the important thing is, he's safe, and nowhere near any actual danger just yet – Bilbo sends him a package of his favorite biscuits and a plea to look after himself, and still, on most days, fails to remember he doesn't have to go into his room to wake him up first thing in the morning.

A tempest leaves him stranded away from Dale for almost two days, and cleaves a massive branch clean off one of the elms in the middle of the day, and it demolishes his favorite spot of the hedgerow, the tallest rose hip bush, snapping its delicate twigs and scattering the red seeds everywhere, like beads of a torn necklace. Beorn helps him remove the branch, and Bilbo lets him chop it into manageable bits for him, and feels small, and weak, and desperate.

The roof begins leaking again, and he spends a laborious afternoon rearranging everything in the attic, emerging damp and all but caked in dust and dirt, and he barely has the energy to make himself a cup of tea, let alone proper supper.

And still, he remains alone.

He finds that spending some time with the Gamgees helps – Hamfast has stayed behind for now, and even if the army ever makes recruiting mandatory, he will not be enlisting on account of his old injury, but that isn't reassurance enough for Bell, who has grown very quiet and despondent ever since her Sam left. Bilbo helps her manage the store sometimes, spends the night occasionally when Hamfast and him agree with looks rather than words that she could use the distraction, but always, he returns to Oak Cottage. He can't leave it alone. He can't leave him alone.

He walks by the beach sometimes when the weather agrees with him, and longs for that moment when the road curves around the cliffs and the house first peeks at him through the greenery, treetops swaying, and he imagines Thorin standing there by the gate like he used to, waiting for him to come home.

He takes the book in his hands sometimes, _A Seaman's True Colors_ , and brushes the thumb across the painting on the front of it, the ship warring with the ocean, and leafs through its pages, and remembers it all so clearly, sitting at his desk for days on end and writing everything down, Thorin pacing the span of the room and dictating, his voice still clear in Bilbo's mind... And yet, sometimes, he wonders if he hasn't just made it all up.

He sits down countless times to write some more, fill that beautiful bound notebook he's bought ages ago with what he hopes might be his memoir of sorts, but can never bring himself to write a single word.

The news from the front trickle only slowly, the newspapers all vague at best, and Frodo's letters are short and sporadic, and even though he attempts to sound cheerful and hopeful, and asks after Bilbo and reminds him to take care of himself, it does nothing to quell Bilbo's concerns. Neither does another letter from Dis, stating that France is indeed at an uproar, and that her sons have decided to join the army as well – Kili first, as he'd been toying with the idea of enlisting with the navy before, and Fili following, to hear his mother's pleas and keep his little brother safe. Bilbo reads _that_ letter out loud as well, word by painful word, and expects to receive _some_ reaction, but he only hears the rain bearing down harder on the old roof, and nothing else.

“I could use the company, you know,” he breathes out, and feels very odd – for all he knows, he might have spent all these years just talking to himself.

What proof does he have that Thorin was ever with him? The book? Bilbo spent such long nights jotting down notes and connecting the dots of that jumbled story, that he might have actually started imagining things in that delirium – and no one is there to prove him otherwise, now are they?

No, better to come to terms with the facts – he is alone, and he might very well lose his mind soon if nothing changes.

He does spend winter in Dale, like his friends suggested he do, many times before – it is a split second decision, really, as he simply can't imagine tending to the house on his lonesome, getting snowed in for days on end with nothing to do but watch the expanse of the sea and the fields. The thought terrifies him, and so he accepts the Gamgees' offer to stay with them for a couple of weeks, through the worst weather at least, and though he can never sleep very well in the small bed in their guest bedroom, though he keeps hearing – or wishing he'd hear – a voice of someone long gone, turning his head to see a familiar figure standing by, he prevails. Spends the days cooking, and reading, and talking to people, and acting the supporter when the letters arrive from the front.

The boys are being deployed now, it seems, as the front has begun moving, and they even see planes soaring overhead every now and then, like angered birds flocking and heading overseas, their rattle and keening roar a grim sound that makes their hearts clench

And he is not the only one worrying about his child in the midst of all that.

Winter is long and relentless that year, as if in agreement with the chaos the world has been thrown into, and Bilbo dreams of his boy's cheerful laughter, can see him dashing down the hill back to the house, and wonders if he will know, if he will _sense_ when something happens to him.

Christmas is spent in silence and in prayer, lighting a candle for each of the souls they had to watch leave, and the toughest weeks of January and February of the new year make the township of Dale too quiet, streets devoid of people and the usual chatter and laughter of children, fishermen unable to do their work, not enough traders willing or able to sell for the markets to happen. Resources are dwindling, and it's as if the entire world has forgotten about them – they are cut off from the rest of the country, by the hills and by the frost, and neither the post nor the business arrive for weeks on end.

Without prompting him to do so, Beorn stops by Bilbo's Cottage every now and then to check on everything, make sure that both doors are locked still and no window has been blown out its hinges by one of the storms, and it is after one of those visits that he returns with a terse face and very few words to describe the situation.

“I think you should return there,” he tells a very concerned Bilbo, the snow in the rich fur lining of his heavy coat barely melted, “nothing is missing, I don't think, and the doors are both locked, but it doesn't do to leave it alone for too long.”

Something in the way he says _it_ instead of _the house,_ or anything else less distressing, sends shivers up Bilbo's spine, and he wraps himself in a coat of his own, and many, many layers below it, and makes the trek across the cliffs, accompanied by the shepherd and his dog, the three of them marching grimly and laboriously.

Bilbo sees the damage soon enough, and his heart leaps, his breath coming out strained, the freezing air forming it into clouds immediately – the windowpanes up in the master bedroom are cracked, a number of them even broken, and he sees the curtain fluttering inside.

“Could a storm have done that?” Bilbo peeps, already knowing the answer – Beorn scrutinizes the house, sizing it up and down, and Bilbo notices Ursa the dog, keeping unusually close by his side, when usually he's the one for running around and barking joyfully at anything that moves.

“It's possible,” the shepherd says, not in the least convincing, and the dog growls, a low, guttural sound, before letting out a muffled, strained bark.

“Alright then,” Bilbo sighs, and fumbles in his satchel for his keys.

The lock refuses to budge for some time, and Bilbo is this close to hissing at a certain someone to stop mucking about, but then he realizes he's not alone, for one, and he'd just be talking to himself again as well. After a bit of rattling, the door relents, and he steps inside, Beorn ordering his dog to heed, and following him, heavy boots making the wooden floor creak. The air is even colder inside, if that's possible, and the silence is overwhelming – Bilbo can hear his own breathing, the beating of his heart, far too loud.

“Actually, um, could you go check the kitchen, please?” he pipes up when Beorn makes to follow him upstairs, “the open shelf above the stove has been a little loose, I think a single waft of wind could knock it off the wall.”

The shepherd frowns, but obliges, and Bilbo makes his way up the stairs – he's not entirely sure why he doesn't want Beorn with him. It's probably rather irrational, since there is safety in numbers, but some part of him already knows – he's not going to encounter anything that wasn't in the house already.

He stand stock still at the top of the stairs, listening to the dull thudding of Beorn's heavy footsteps downstairs, listening to anything else that might tell him what's happened here – his breath is freezing still, but other than that, he's not cold in the least, he discovers.

“Are you here?” he whispers, can't bring himself to be any louder, and since he doesn't actually expect a response, the creak of a door startles him immensely.

It is the one leading to his bedroom, opened just the slightest bit, and Bilbo forgets to breathe for a moment.

“Thorin?” he murmurs, and using his name, even daring to _hope_ he might be anywhere near, feels foreign somehow.

He nears the room cautiously, step by step, taking ages to reach for the door handle alone – and he actually yelps like a frightened child when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. But it's just Beorn, and Bilbo didn't even hear him approaching, but he's glad he's here now.

They enter the room together, and Bilbo shudders when he lays eyes on it – wind is blowing in through the large broken window, teasing the papers scattered all over the floor, among the shards of glass. They are Bilbo's notes, most of which he _knows_ were safely tucked away in the desk drawers. The chair in front of the desk is toppled over, the plaid throw dragged off the ottoman onto the ground, the paintings all crooked, except for the largest one, Thorin glaring at them as if they've trespassed into his territory.

All in all, it looks very much like nothing happened here except for the storm breaking the window and making a right mess of things, but Bilbo knows differently. It's subtle, but he knows.

His suspicions are confirmed when he steps farther into the room, and sees the only thing left untouched on the desk – the inkwell is knocked over, fortunately almost empty, the pens out of their pouch, Bilbo's notebook on the ground as well... But there lies the letter Bilbo had never opened, the one his publisher had sent him, the paper unfolded right in the center of the desk, the torn envelope nearby.

“Oh no,” Bilbo sighs, a quiet exhale, nearing it, “oh, I'm so sorry.”

He hears Beorn making a confused little sound, but pays it no mind, taking the paper in his hands – he can't even really bring himself to read the writing on it, but he doesn't think he needs to.

“I never wanted to-”

_Traitors!_

It's like the roar of a wounded animal, a violent gust of wind, the very beams of the house shuddering and whining, and Bilbo hears Beorn's sharp inhale behind him, probably the most horror the weathered man will ever express, but he doesn't feel even a fraction of it himself – the floor under his feet might sway or rattle, for he stumbles forward, clutching onto the edge of the desk, and it's as if the Captain has decided to bring the sea and the storm to this very bedroom, wind howling and snow wafting in like a blizzard, but all that Bilbo feels, beyond his heart pounding, is immense relief.

“Thorin!” he calls, no hopes of overpowering the raging noise of the elements, “stop this! It's alright, it's all over now!”

He senses more than he hears Beorn backing out of the room, shouting something at him, and he remembers with a flash the very first time he stepped foot into this house – it had been the same, some unknown horror seizing them and chasing them out, but now, Bilbo has no reason to be afraid, or even confused. It simply doesn't work on him.

“Thorin, it's fine, it's me! You can show yourself! Please!”

 _Traitors!_ , the house wails, the sound of something cracking like a ship caught in the shallows, _you took her away from me! You didn't know!_

“I know, Thorin, I know!” Bilbo is straining to speak, brine in his face and each step an ordeal, as if he's wading through the sea itself – he doesn't know why, but he knows he must reach the painting, outstretch his hand, touch...

It all stops with a crack of thunder, a noise louder than all the rest, and Bilbo wonders a bit deliriously if it hasn't deafened him – that's how heavy and all-encompassing the following silence is.

_What are you running away from?_

He shudders, turning around, but it's impossible to determine where it's coming from – everywhere at once, he suspects.

“Thorin,” he breathes out.

_Why did you come here?_

“Oh, stop this now. Show yourself.”

“ _Why_ did you come here?”

Bilbo knows he's behind him long before he turns that way – his eyes blaze in his dark stern features, the angles of his handsome face sharper, deep shadows hollowing his cheeks and making his skin look sickly pale, and he's barely there, shimmering like the softest breeze might blow him away, and yet, Bilbo has never been happier to see him.

“Took you long enough,” he smirks, but Thorin's expression doesn't change one bit.

“What are you doing here?”

“Planning to clean up all this mess you've made, if you don't mind.”

“ _Why_ did you come here?!”

 _That_ tone removes all hints of joking from Bilbo's mind, and quite unwittingly, he takes a step back.

“You know why,” he exhales, then, softer, standing his ground, “Thorin. Please.”

“You have no place here.”

“Oh, do I not, all of a sudden? Why? Because I decided to spend a couple of weeks away, around _actual_ people, rather than arguing with someone who doesn't even respond? Don't be ridiculous.”

“You have no place here,” Thorin repeats, and Bilbo sees that he isn't even... isn't even looking at him, not really, but rather _through_ him, his eyes distant, and so incredibly sad, tired, and _gone._ Halfway gone.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Bilbo murmurs, taking a step closer.

Outside, he thinks he can hear the faint barking of a dog, but it's as if the world has shrunk to just this room, just him and the ghost. He doesn't even feel cold anymore.

“I wish I knew how to help you,” he sighs, raising his hand so as to cradle Thorin's cheek – he barely feels anything, but he holds his hand in place, in hopes that those eyes might focus at some point. “I wish I knew a way to put your soul at ease. I don't know what they did to you, and I expect I never will, but I'm-” his voice shudders, “I'm glad I met you, you know. I don't think I was ever running away _from_ anything. Maybe I'd been waiting my whole life to run into you.”

Thorin's eyes widen an imperceptible amount, and Bilbo smiles, before hanging his head, his hand dropping to his side.

“Now there's a story they'd laugh at me for writing, don't you think?”

“Bilbo?”

It's as if the entire house lets out a sigh, the sounds from the outside returning, the howling of the wind, the creaking of the bare branches of the trees, even his own breath and heartbeat, the frost biting at his cheeks, the ache of swallowed tears in his throat.

He looks up, hopeful and afraid at the same time, and sees something familiar gazing back, sees him, for one precious moment, really there in the room with him, as real as he's always been to Bilbo – as real as he's ever going to get anymore.

“Yes,” he smiles feebly, “I'm here.”

“I'm sorry,” the Captain exhales, and he's shaking, fading away from him, “I'm sorry. I didn't want to put you all in peril, but I had to see for myself. I had to see. I didn't mean to fall asleep. I almost caught him...”

“Thorin,” Bilbo shakes his head vigorously, his own voice wavering, “that's all in the past. You're here, now, with me. Please, remember that.”

“I had to go see. I knew she would make it, she's always been the fastest, and the cliffs were so far away...”

“Thorin, I know. I know. I'm sorry about your ship. But she's gone now. You know that.”

“They took her away from me,” the Captain hisses, and he's staring at a spot somewhere behind Bilbo's head, gone again, “they never asked, and they took her away.”

“I know, and I'm sorry, but please...”

“Bilbo?”

He sounds like a child, frightened and confused, and Bilbo's hands shoot forward instinctively to grab at his, never getting to catch anything, no matter how far he might reach.

“Yes, I'm here. Please, Thorin.”

“You came back,” the Captain exhales, quiet and feeble, reverent in his disbelief.

“I did. I couldn't leave you to knock out any more of our windows, could I.”

Thorin is staring at him, _really_ at him, now, _glares_ as if Bilbo is his only point of focus, his lighthouse in the dark, and he wonders if he even knows how long it's been, if he even knows how time actually flies, without sleep, without rest.

“I'm here now,” he repeats, “will you stay with me? I'll find a way to put your mind to rest, I promise. I promise. I just can't be in this house alone, now that Frodo is...”

“Where is he?”

“The war, Thorin, I told you. Countless times. He's gone, and I don't know if he's... I don't know.”

“But he was just...” Thorin looks around frantically, as if he's seeing the room they're in for the first time, as if he might find Frodo hiding nearby, “he was just here, I just saw him, I talked to him...”

“You couldn't have talked to him,” Bilbo chuckles, “he's been gone for months now.”

“But I told him... I told him I'd keep him safe, I...”

“That's kind of you, but there's nothing you could have done, I'm sure,” Bilbo finds his words only with much difficulty now – he's shivering, and the sun is coming down. How long have they been here? Didn't he come here with someone?

“You're lying,” Thorin now glares at _him_ as if he's seeing him for the first time, his voice changing, like it's been changing all this time, the roar of a storm one moment, a gentle whisper of a breeze the next.

“I'm not,” Bilbo sighs, “you just haven't been paying attention.”

 

He's not entirely certain of anything that happens in the next couple of minutes, or hours, or days. All that he remembers is Thorin, his blue eyes, the shadows of his face, the snow wafting in through a broken window – he was there one moment, and then the roar of the sea, and then silence, and Bilbo is alone at Oak Cottage, just like he's been all this time.

Try telling a ghost to stay. Try convincing an echo of a man that he is real. Try believing that you haven't made anything up, when everything is pointing to the fact that you've been losing your mind all this time. Try speaking of love and trust and pain in an empty derelict room, and you might anger the elements.

Bilbo doesn't remember much. All that he knows is waking up warm in his bed one very bright morning, the snow blazing white, his throat sore and the taste of brine on his tongue, head pounding and heart beating dull and slow, and he is alone. He's always been alone, ever since his nephew was swallowed by the war. He must wait for him to return, and he must never lose hope. That much he remembers, and there's someone's name on the tip of his tongue for days, but he can never bring himself to say it.

 

-

 

_Dearest Dis,_

 

_of course I would adore for you to come – we've been waiting long enough, and I think we shall benefit from the company, both of us. You will be safer here – the news of the war reach us only every so often, and we haven't seen a single soldier since the start of it all._

_We mustn't lose hope – our children will return to us. Don't ask me how I know this, it's just... a feeling. I've been... odd, lately. I spend my days trying to remember something someone has decided I should forget, a long time ago. Wandering the house searching for something I can never find. Missing someone who was never here._

_At any case, I could use the company. You will be welcome anytime, and we can wait this all out together. Spring is coming, and the garden will be in full bloom by the time you get here, I believe. It's quite the sight. Write to your sons, so that they know where to find you, when this is all over, and come stay with me. I'll be waiting._

_Sincerely yours_

 

_Bilbo Baggins_

_17 th March, 1915, Oak Cottage, Dale_

 

-

 

He hasn't been paying attention. He hasn't been keeping track on time, or the sun, or the steady ebb and flow of the sea, because his mind is clouded, his thoughts scattered like seagulls chasing after each other high up in the sky. He has fled, and yet hasn't moved an inch, because he can't. But the confines of the house, its walls and floors and roof, blur in his sight, and he passes through everything unannounced, without aim.

Bilbo is there, and then he isn't. So is Dis, sitting in the drawing room, tall and beautiful with her harp – but when he looks closer, he sees it's just the sun playing tricks on him. He hears his nephews' laughter, follows their footsteps, only to find their room deserted. Wasn't there supposed to be another child there? Frodo.

_He's been gone for months now._

So is Thorin. His mind isn't his own, he's just a collection of his memories, assaulting him without prior warning, making him relive his years at sea, his years of loss, and his years of loneliness, and he wishes with all his might to break away, to clear his mind, to walk into the ocean and never emerge again.

Bilbo is there, and then he isn't. He is Thorin's tether, his anchor to the reality of the everyday, and when he leaves the house one day, all the warmth and the steady tick-tock of time passing by leaves with him, and Thorin's world spins underneath his feet, and his eyes see things he's been trying to forget.

Bilbo is there, and then he isn't, and when Thorin sees him standing in front of him once more, he doesn't believe. He cannot believe. Just like everyone else, Bilbo is long gone now, has been long gone, just like Dis, just like his boys, just like his crew, chased away, because Thorin always chases everyone away.

And so it is particularly cruel that the fleeting echo of Bilbo resolves to haunting him, taunting him, for days to come. He walks through the house as if he's really there, his voice far too clear when he calls Thorin's name. His tears. His ragged breathing at night, his wandering, his... his words. His words.

He came to the house so long ago, when Thorin was already fading, and he wasn't afraid to talk to him, wasn't afraid to _listen,_ and reminded Thorin that there was a part of him that was _real_ still. He made Thorin _hope,_ and rage, and laugh, and _feel,_ feel alive, and even though he might very well be buried just like the rest of them, Thorin can't help himself, he follows him around and watches, always watches. Watches him make tea with his hands shaking, watches him sit in his rocking chair and gaze out onto the sea, long and silent, his face unmoving, eyes mirroring lifetimes, his own, and Thorin's, as if they ever had any chance of intersecting.

He listens to his voice when he reads out letter after letter, the words and the names carrying meaning that Thorin has long since forgotten, and he listens to his voice when he says his name and pleads with him to show himself, to stay with him – Thorin would like to oblige, but how do you agree with your own imagination?

 _I can't bear being alone in this house,_ the memory of Bilbo states, _not for much longer. It's been weeks since Frodo has written, did you know? Thorin? Thorin. I'm sorry._

_Did I make you this way?_

_I'm sorry._

 

The storms, he understands. The quarreling of the sea and the sky, the thunder and lightning, the crackle of tension in the air, the building and unfurling of the clouds, the relentless winds – that's where the last shred of life he feels is stored, and he watches the war on the horizon, watches it near the shore, and hopes that one of these days, a strong enough storm will take him away.

_Thorin._

The waves break against the cliffs like glass shattering, and he turns his head up to the sky, and hopes to feel the rain on his face.

_Thorin! Is that you?! Thorin!_

At least now, the visions could leave him alone. Is that too much to ask for?

“Thorin!”

He hasn't really heard that voice in so long. He hasn't been paying attention.

“Bilbo?”

He turns to look, and the rain doesn't affect him, but it certainly affects Bilbo, making his hair stick to his forehead as he half runs, half stumbles up the hill to the cliffs, determined to get _somewhere,_ Thorin doesn't quite understand.

“Bilbo? What are you doing?”

“Thorin! Where are you? Blast it, I swear I could see you...”

“Bilbo, _what_ are you doing here?! I'm right here!”

The storm is louder than them, and Thorin panics – he can't get through to Bilbo, can't make him see, hear... this is real, isn't it? Bilbo is really there, and for some reason, Thorin can't show himself. They've always been so close, and yet held apart, and it's infuriating.

“Bilbo!” he shouts, but his voice doesn't even come out at all, “stop! I'm here!”

But with a strange resolve, the man marches up to the very top of the hill, soaking wet, brushing his hair away from his forehead with the back of his hand, opening his mouth, calling Thorin's name, but he can't hear him either, it's like an invisible wall is between them now, and Thorin is thrashing against its confines, not now, _not now..._

“Thorin! I know you're here, just show yourself!”

A stroke of lightning cleaves the sky, illuminating everything brightly for the faintest blink of an eye, and Thorin sees that he is too close to the edge of the cliff, Bilbo is too close, and he seems adamant on walking forth, as if he can't see, as if he doesn't know, as if he doesn't know that _you're not allowed anywhere near the cliffs, do you hear me..._

“ _Bilbo!_ ”

It is a surge that hurts him, that tastes like the bitterest sea water, but one second, Thorin is watching the slip of Bilbo's foot as he whips his head to look back over his shoulder, eyes wide and terrified, but intent on _finding,_ and the smile flashing on his face ever so briefly as he finally, finally sees Thorin, only to twist into a grimace of horror as he loses solid ground under his feet...

One second, Thorin feels himself fading, dissipating into thin air, and the next, he feels what he hasn't felt in ages, years, decades, the pain, the tug of his muscles straining, wet skin in the grip of his hand, _the weight_ of Bilbo as he plunges forward to save him, because saving him is all that matters. All that will ever matter.

 

It's too much. He knows it is too much, because one second, Bilbo's face is pale and his eyes wide and his breath coming out in little shallow gasps as he writhes on the ground, shaking like a leaf, and then the next, he's peaceful and asleep in his bed, the rise and fall of his chest even and calm, and Thorin has no recollection of what happened in between.

He is not the one who carried him from the cliff back to the house – maybe Bilbo went back himself, perhaps it was the shepherd, yes, Thorin recalls the barking of a dog, but none of that matters now. He's losing concentration, he's losing the strength to just _remain,_ and fast, and thus he must act fast.

“Bilbo,” he exhales, stepping closer to the bed, his very fingertips cradling the man's cheekbone, and he lets out a small, shuddering sigh, but doesn't stir otherwise.

“I'm sorry,” Thorin murmurs, “truly I am, for everything I've put you through. It's been too long. I want you to forget all this.”

He hesitates, closes his eyes and recalls all the evenings they spent together by that desk or in the garden, or walking on the beach, all of them so _real_ , he knows – but his mind is clear now, like the sky after that storm, and he knows what he's decided to do is the right thing.

“You will forget all about me. You've written the book all on your own, after all. You'll live a happy life. You must never lose hope. Wait for your nephew to come back to you – he will. And... _live._ Write more. Plant more trees, and watch them grow – you've long since stopped running.”

Bilbo's eyes move underneath his closed lids, his dreaming restless, and Thorin's heart keens, but he prevails – that's all he has left.

“I'm too weak now. Too tired. I'll be with you, every step of the way, and we will meet again, at the end, I promise. But now, I must go, and you must forget all about me. Sleep peacefully.”

_Farewell._

The breeze in the branches of the elm trees carries that last word away, and Oak Cottage grows silent, expectant. It is true what they say about the souls of sailors, after all – they may never find rest, but if they so decide, a safe harbor is just as good.

 


	12. Chapter 12

She arrives on a disproportionately beautiful day, when the sun has long since ascended the beautifully clear sky, and the first time she lays her eyes on the sea, her heart stops, and she almost tells her driver to turn around. But then she sees it, the familiar roof, so much less of it peeking through the treetops now, everything has grown so tall, everything is just beginning to bloom, _is the rose bush still going to be there_ , and her hand flutters to her mouth, and breathing is suddenly very difficult and very exhilarating at the same time.

The wooden gate has been repaired and repainted, though even that white isn't as crisp as it once used to be, she suspects, and it is only with great trepidation that she enters, taking her time to walk up to the house. It is so quiet, so still, like nothing has changed, like they only left yesterday and Thorin will be sitting in the rocking chair in the dining room, responding to her greeting with nothing more than a grunt, but lighting up immediately when the boys will dash past her...

She takes a feeble, shuddering breath, casting one look to her driver unloading her sparse luggage – a part of her still can't believe she's really decided to do this. A part of her is still convinced she should have followed her sons to the ends of the world itself, not leave them behind a sea away...

_It's for the best, Mama, please keep yourself safe, we'll find our way back to you..._

Maybe she will be the one sitting in that rocking chair and gazing at the horizon in a feeble hope of seeing a ship carrying both her boys back to her.

She spots him out of the corner of her eye, an unfamiliar figure in her otherwise hauntingly familiar surroundings, a straw hat with a red ribbon and a halo of honey-brown curls, hunched over a patch of grass she's _certain_ is where that dreadful tree Thorin had brought from abroad used to stand, and she swallows, gulps nervously, her skirt catching on the tip of her shoe, and she lifts the fabric and makes her way to him, too quiet, too worried about startling him.

“Bilbo?” she exhales, almost certain he couldn't hear her even if she wanted him to, but he raises his head nevertheless, eyes dark but gleaming, the angles of his face rearranging, troubled and burdened one moment, then spreading into a tentative, but endlessly warm smile, like the first streak of sunlight bursting through the clouds.

“Oh my goodness,” he breathes out, standing up and dusting his hands off, “oh, hello. It's you. Is it you?”

“It's me,” Dis grins.

“Oh my, I wasn't sure you were going to come! Welcome, welcome!” Bilbo fumbles over words at the speed of light, reaching out to take her hand, then retracting his with a hurried jerk, “oh, look at me, I'm all disheveled, I should have prepared better, I'm not-”

“My dear Bilbo,” the smile can't seem to be willing to leave her lips, and she steps forward, taking both his hands in hers, and they are dry and warm and calloused, “I sincerely don't mind. I'm just glad I'm here.”

He stares mutely for a moment, that wondrous, slightly dazed look in his eyes, and she sees that they are a deep grey-blue, his features soft underneath all those unnecessary wrinkles and creases that come with worrying too much too early in one's life, and even though she's never seen him before in her life, she _knows_ him, feels a strange familiar comfort just being in his presence.

“Right,” he exhales, then, smiling even broader as if he's really only just realized she's really there, “right! So am I. My goodness. Let's get you inside, shall we? I baked just this morning. Are you hungry, have you had lunch?”

“I'm perfectly fine just the way I am,” she chuckles, “a cup of tea will do. Aren't you leaving your work unfinished?”

She points to the little sprout he was crouching by a moment ago, and he looks at it as if he's seeing it for the very first time.

“Ah, that, right,” he mumbles, then frowns, like he's trying to remember what he was doing with it in the first place, “no... no, that's alright. It's the strangest thing, you know.”

“Is it?” she inclines her head, “I for one commend you for felling that dreadful monkey... puzzle thing, was it? And replacing it with this. Is it an oak?”

“It's a, uh...” Bilbo mutters, words suddenly eluding him, and Dis sees, even though she thinks she's not supposed to, a ghost of something distant, darker, flashing in his eyes, before he shakes it off and declares brightly: “Yes, yes, an oak. You wouldn't believe it, but I planted an acorn here _years_ ago, it's a long story, but you know, no one in their right mind would expect an old acorn to ever sprout, and yet...”

It doesn't even resemble a tree yet, just a short feeble sprout with a handful of thin, fluttering leaves on top, and it doesn't even look strong enough to stand on its own, instead relying on the makeshift round cage that Bilbo has built for it, just string and twigs – but it is an oddly hopeful sight.

“That is strange,” Dis smiles.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo chuckles, “I suppose there's some charm in it sprouting just when you turned up out of the blue. Come on, let's fetch your luggage and I shall make that tea for us both.”

A gentle breeze sways the translucent fauntling leaves as if caressing them carefully, and Dis nods, and follows Bilbo inside the house that once used to be her favorite place to be, in the entire world – and this time, though neither of them know it yet, it is to stay.

 

-

 

At some point, the letters stop arriving. They spend a lot of time reassuring each other, Dis and him, that all their children are alright, that they will be coming back, but the truth is, the entire country echoes with the terror of the bombings, and they look to the skies expecting the fat shadows of German zeppelins every night, and no one knows anything for sure anymore.

She is reserved at first, and the townsfolk are suspicious of her, always wearing black and speaking very little, but to Bilbo, she is just magnificent – something in her sharp, regal features, the angle of her nose and the depth of her gray eyes, is endlessly familiar to him, in that he feels like he's spent years and years by her side, or someone else exactly like her.

Other times, he stops by the painting in his bedroom, and watches the face of the Captain glaring back, and thinks, _of course._ She used to have a sibling, after all.

The house is quiet still, but at least there's company now, someone to sit with, someone to occasionally talk to – Bilbo doesn't think they will ever be what the flock of town wives suspect them to be, but neither he nor Dis much care for gossip, and so they merrily let them speculate, and spend long days talking of gardening, or their favorite authors, or simply sitting side by side on the veranda, watching the horizon, or, when its unfulfilled promises become too much, the garden, the grass swaying in the breeze resembling an ocean of its own.

The first time Bilbo hears the gentle, quiet plucking of harp strings, he drops the plate he's been washing and it clatters in the sink, and for the briefest moment, his heart pounds wildly, as if he's just remembered something he's been missing all this time – he snaps to look back over his shoulder, but sees nothing, nothing but an empty doorway and sunlight streaming into the hallway beyond.

He sighs, shakes his head, shakes it off, and follows the sound – he finds Dis sitting by the harp in the drawing room, her hands hovering over the strings uncertainly, jerking away when she sees him.

“May I...?” she asks a bit pointlessly, and he laughs.

“It is yours after all, is it not.”

She plays more and more frequently from then on, gentle, quiet melodies in the mornings, sweeping pieces that make Bilbo's heart swell when it's raining outside, and if he ever comes in unannounced and sees tears brimming in her eyes, he never comments on it.

For what are they, really, other than two lonely souls sharing a single roof? Coincidence has brought them together, and they swiftly find that they have more in common than even their years of prior correspondence have revealed, but some grief, one simply must shoulder alone, no matter how much of it may be shared.

She sleeps in Frodo's room, as it used to be her bedroom once, but it's only temporary, they assure each other. Until Frodo comes back.

Until they all come back.

Some grief you may share, but some you must shoulder alone.

Sometimes, they take a walk on the beach – never as far as the old pier, only stubs left of it now, never for her to see the carvings left in the aging wood – and he hears the murmur of a voice in the rolling of the waves, so clear he has to stop and listen, and doesn't quite have an answer when she asks him what's wrong.

Sometimes, he sees a figure out of the corner of his eye while he's baking, or standing in the fluttering shade of the elm trees in the garden, but he always discovers Dis is nowhere nearby, and his eyes have been playing tricks on him again.

Sometimes, he realizes he's been talking to himself only after she enters the room, asking him what the matter is.

 

Sometimes, he dreams of a face he doesn't recognize, a voice saying words he can't make out, and when he wakes up, it is to the faintest taste of brine on his tongue, and the echo of someone shouting his name stuck in his head, alongside a tingling feeling of the sore and incessant need to remember something that's been on the back of his mind for ages.

 

More men get drafted, recruiting becomes mandatory in the spring of 1916, and soon, Bilbo and Hamfast Gamgee are very nearly the only two men left in the whole of Dale, alongside the old and the sick. Even Beorn leaves one day, even though Bilbo thought he was too old – he stops by one morning, a grim frown and a terse plea to feed his dog, and when Bilbo agrees and asks about the rest of his animals, his bees, his sheep, his horses, he sees his brooding face contort in the tenderest, most fragile emotion, and feels, for the first time since this blasted war started, real anger.

“They can take care of themselves,” Beorn states heavily, “I've got an agreement with farmer Maggot about some of them, and the horses have always roamed free anyway. Ursa will keep an eye on them.”

The large dog wags his tail feebly at the mention of his name, but whines and pushes his head into Beorn's palm.

“He wouldn't stay with anyone else but you,” the shepherd explains, scratching him between the ears, “he knows to come when he's hungry, and he'll keep an eye out around the house, but other than that, he'll be no trouble, I swear.”

“Oh, that's alright, please don't worry about it,” Bilbo hurries to assure him, “it will be our pleasure.”

“I remember him as a puppy still,” Dis smiles gently, the dog sniffing her hand curiously, then letting her pet him, “my boys used to adore him.”

She says it casually enough, but Bilbo's chest clenches anyway, and even the shepherd seems touched, though he measures her cautiously still.

“Please be safe,” Bilbo urges him, and doesn't say the words he really wants to say, _please come back alongside my boy, please find him and keep_ him _safe._

They watch him walk away, up the hillock and disappearing beyond it, and the dog refuses to leave his side the entire time, and they almost think he's accompanied his master into war as well, until he comes back a couple of days later, barely summoning enough willpower to eat what Bilbo feeds him, refusing to come inside the house and curling up on the veranda instead, whining and crying through the night.

From then on, it is three lonely souls at Oak Cottage, and Bilbo doesn't know about the other two, but he's glad he has them.

 

Soon, there is a shortage of just about everything, from basic groceries to newspapers, from patience to hope – they all work diligently, to fill the jobs the husbands and sons have left behind, and the new rationing system doesn't catch them entirely unprepared, for if they excel at anything in Dale aside from fishing, it is keeping a pantry well stocked. But there is talk of more bombings, and German u-boats lurking ever closer to the shores of their country, and though they are much removed from anywhere the Central Powers have been concentrating their aggression, small and remote, shutting every single light off the second the sun begins reaching out for the brim of the horizon, they are afraid.

It feels like they will always be afraid – days drag on, a lingering unease sometimes making it impossible to crawl out of bed in the morning, let alone walk out of the house. Dis spends long hours writing letters to her sons, and playing the harp, and writing again, and playing again, and Bilbo brings her tea and biscuits, and she thanks him quietly, and forgets to drink and eat them most of the time.

They barely speak of the fact that neither of them have heard from their children for what feels like ages now, because when they do, they usually end up endlessly miserable and even less capable of functioning normally. Dis has no hope of reaching France now, and their letters might very well be shot down the second they soar past British waters, or, worse yet, still stuck where they left them, in a vain hope that they might reach their boys.

It is an era of fear, and constant worrying, coming to terms with the fact that it might never end, while simultaneously still attempting to retain _some_ hope, and it is draining on everyone's resolve.

They do an amicable job of trying to cheer each other up, not just Dis and Bilbo, but everyone in town as well, meeting for Christmases and birthdays and anniversaries, but food is sparse, and good mood even sparser.

Time and time again, Bilbo wanders the ominously quiet hallways of Oak Cottage, and wishes for some comforting words emerging out of the darkness, for some presence he feels like is missing – he can't explain it, and he certainly doesn't ever attempt to talk about it, but it is there.

Often, he sits down with the book he wrote, and reads over the endlessly familiar stories, the words emerging in his mind so clear and yet so foreign, as if he isn't the one who wrote them, at all; as if they were merely recited to him, whispered in his ear in his sleep, and he was merely a vessel, a means to an end, the only one capable of conveying the story of a man he never knew.

He stares into the pitch black corners of his bedroom when he lies in bed at night, and listens for... _something,_ some response, as if the walls of his house have a soul of their own. Inevitably, he always ends up losing a glaring match with the painting above the ottoman, its eyes gleaming even in the night – it is a ridiculously, intensely evocative portrait, but, perhaps laughably so, having it close brings Bilbo comfort.

“I wonder what he would have done.”

They're sitting in the garden together, on a blanket in the grass as if they're just having a simple picnic, and Bilbo has long since finished gardening and fetched them a pitcher of homemade lemon balm lemonade, and Dis has brought her knitting basket, and the dusk is warm, a storm on the way – it is almost shockingly hot for November, the air heavy with the smell of water, and it all makes them want to spend as much time outside as they can before the sky rips apart, before they need much more than just a blanket or two to sit like this. Insects are buzzing low, swallows hunting them before they all retreat to hide from the elements, and all in all, it could be a perfectly lovely, normal afternoon.

“Who?” Dis smiles, completely immersed in her task, fingers flitting and wrists turning masterfully quickly and fluidly, and Bilbo watches the graceful movements quietly, his thumb brushing at the cover of his book absentmindedly.

She notices the gesture, a glance in his direction, and shakes her head with a chuckle, the clicking of her knitting needles her only response for the longest time.

“I think he would have been very angry,” she decides at last, smirking, “I think he would have won the war in a week, singlehandedly.”

“That's probably true,” Bilbo grins, “him and his old wooden ship. Pride of the navy.”

“Indeed,” she laughs.

The click-clack of her handiwork melds in with the whispering of the breeze in the leaves and the grass, and thunder rolls in the distance, nothing more than a quiet rumble of a sound.

“I think he would have liked you,” she murmurs, and there's conviction as well as teasing in her voice.

Bilbo laughs, despite the odd shudder making the hairs on the back of his neck tingle.

“You do?”

“Oh yes,” she affords him the brightest of her smiles, one he doesn't get to see very often, “he appreciated bravery, in anyone. Of any kind.”

“And how exactly have I ever been brave?” Bilbo snickers, and she frowns, this close to tut-tutting at him, he can sense it.

“So often, in so many ways. He would have admired your resolve.”

“My resolve!” Bilbo laughs, “oh, I think we would have driven each other insane.”

“Perhaps,” she smiles, gazing at her own hands now, the yarn wrapping like delicate vines around her fingers, “I'm sure you would have been able to buy his fancy, though. He did love a good shortbread.”

“Yes,” Bilbo chuckles, “I know.”

The roll of thunder is like someone rapping their fingers on wood, and her eyes are dark blazing forges in the fading daylight.

“I mean, I... not that I _know,_ but...”

But he sees soon enough that she is not looking at him, but rather up and behind him, at the house itself, her hands ceasing their seamless movements on their own, her lips parting in the beginning of wonder.

“What? What is it?”

He turns as well, and almost topples over himself and knocks over the pitcher of their lemonade turning the rest of the way – the tiniest flicker of flame dances on the tip of the roof, right above the skylight, and it is blue, a bright blue. And green, and golden, and everything sinks into startled silence, and Bilbo holds his breath.

Another flame appears nearby, and then another, and another one, on the edges of the roof like fireflies, and there is no sound of wood straining under the heat, no sound at all in fact, and Bilbo's heart pounds, and his mouth hangs agape.

“Corposant,” he exhales reverently.

“What? Is it on fire?” Dis whispers, scrambling to her feet, and he rises as well, hurrying to catch her hand.

“No, no, it's fine!” he hurries to assure her, “it's just... corpse light. Saint Elmo's fire!”

She stands frozen in utter silence, her eyes wide with frightened amazement, and the flames flicker and dance cheerfully still.

“He's the patron saint of sailors,” Bilbo explains, his words coming to him out of nowhere, “it's an omen. A warning that a storm is coming.”

“Well, we knew that already,” Dis says feebly, her voice wavering, her fingers closing tighter around Bilbo's, and he chuckles, squeezing back.

“But I think it's also a wish of good luck in overcoming it,” Bilbo sighs, and he couldn't explain the peace that washes over him, like a warm blanket around his shoulders, but it is there nevertheless, comforting and reassuring, and he smiles at the dancing blue-green sprites, blinking in and out of sight like they're winking at him, reminding him that everything will be alright.

“Yes, I think it is a sign of good fortune to come.”

 

In the morning, the storm has swept the skies clear of clouds, and the roar of the sea and the cackle of seagulls is louder than ever, and the doorbell rings right after they've finished eating their very late, very lazy breakfast, and all that Bilbo will remember from that morning is that one minute, he was figuring out the best way to eat his eggs, and the next, he was embracing Dis and celebrating a war ended.

 

-

 

He arrives one freezing afternoon, shortly after one year has shifted into another, and Dis has heard so much about him, about his smiles and his mannerisms, his laughter and his wit, so that even she recognizes how much he's changed – she ventures Bilbo barely recognizes him, in faded soldier brown, hair long and falling into his face, eyes sunken and cheeks pale, even though they both smile, and run to each other and embrace for the longest time.

In Bilbo's hand, Frodo presses a small, battered, long-broken compass, and says quietly: “I'm sorry I couldn't make it back in time for Christmas.”

It is with tears in his eyes and a watery smile that Bilbo introduces his nephew to her, and as Frodo shakes her hand, a bright but tired grin, his eyes sky blue, she wonders if she will encounter the same look in her sons' eyes – innocence lost, and the unspeakable endured.

 

He smiles whenever Bilbo is around, and eats for two, and helps around the house as best he can, but there is a tension to his every movement, a dull emptiness to his gaze whenever it unfocuses, and his hands shake sometimes and he tries to hide it from his Uncle – and Bilbo either doesn't notice, or refuses to.

A restless sleeper herself, she sees the glow coming in from his room late at night, the door half ajar, and she hears the shuffling of sheets and the whimpering, and she walks inside without thinking about it twice, and puts her arms around the boy, and he doesn't have strength enough to protest.

He shivers like a young tree in a hurricane, and clutches onto her, a mother he lost ages ago, and she holds him, a son she's still waiting for, and it's a silent comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles when she tells him about her boys, in a few soft and somber words, “I'm so sorry.”

As if it is his fault that they haven't come back yet, as if all of it is somehow his fault. How can anyone expect someone so young to live with guilt of that magnitude?

 

He wanders a lot, with the dog by his side, two lonely figures wading through the sea of grass above the house, or the beach all the way to the town, or sits huddled on the veranda until late at night, reading, and Bilbo worries endlessly, but the boy never tells them his story. Never the painful details that he really carries with him. Never the horrors. Barely says a word at all, in fact.

His three closest friends have returned with him, back to their families in Dale, back to their homes, and in the grand scope of things, it is surely a miracle, but Dis suspects they don't see it that way, never will – she understands, because she has a difficult time believing in miracles herself.

She knows in her heart of hearts that she will not be able to bear this much longer – she watches the horizon still, with a hope that is a scorching, aching wound that requires sealing, and she watches Bilbo with his nephew, his _child_ , serving him breakfast, and straightening out his shirt morning after morning, no doubt still clinging with all his power onto the image of a young innocent boy, unburdened and unhurt, and she knows that if she doesn't at least _try_ searching for her own children, she will go insane.

Oak Cottage has welcomed her back without a hitch, without a single complaint, rendering the guilt she felt over leaving it insubstantial, and she makes a deal – with Bilbo, but with the house itself as well – that if she doesn't discover her sons back in France, she will come back here.

She leaves just when the roses have begun blooming in full, and in her hand she clutches a small battered long-broken compass.

 

-

 

Everything is in speeding up, slipping through his fingers – he comes back in winter, cruel, unforgiving and relentless by the sea, and doesn't remember the months leading up to it, doesn't remember much at all. Foxholes, and the stench, and the noise, he will never forget, but other than that, there's... nothing. He's spent what feels like decades shaved off his life closing his eyes with the image of the house in his mind, the sea of tall blue-green grass and the white walls, and the impossible span of the ocean itself, and Uncle Bilbo in his garden; he's been dreaming of it all this time, holding onto the picture with all his might, his only hope being that he might see it again one day, and now that he does, it's... nothing feels the same anymore.

Nothing really _feels_ any way, anymore.

He watches the house become that, like a painting he's made up in his head, as spring comes, everything beginning to bloom and the air getting warmer, but it is like he's still stuck somewhere inside, beyond a thick wall of glass, merely an onlooker, never quite capable of reaching out and experiencing all of it firsthand.

He is brimming to the edge with fear, overflowing with it – he wakes up gasping for air at night because someone's just shouted _Grenade!_ , and his head cannot handle that there will be no more grenades, no more sudden movements, no more situations where he mustn't respond with his head, but rather with his basest primal instincts. He's learned to feed those and utilize those, and now that he doesn't have to anymore, they're clawing at the insides of his head, scrambling everything.

His fear is like a wild animal, and he has no way of feeding it and calming it down.

 

He likes Dis very much, and is almost certain the feeling is mutual – she is tall and beautiful and grieving, grieving with every single movement and look she casts him, but she makes Uncle laugh, and plays the harp beautifully to fill the screeching silences, and when she wraps her arms around Frodo on that one night, he holds onto her like a lifeline, like an anchor, and sees, for the faintest flicker of a moment, his own mother, brown hair in ringlets, rosy cheeks and bright eyes, a smile conquering every nightmare.

 

She leaves, and comes back not a year later, and Frodo thinks it must be wrong, because the new tree in front of the house barely reached his hands when they bid her goodbye, and now it stands as tall as his shoulders. He's losing sense of time. Her sons, the one she told him about in hushed tones, are gone, and Frodo can't even look at her for what might be days, or weeks. He's afraid that he might tell her that he'd suspected it. That sometimes, it seems to him like Sam and him, and Merry and Pippin, are the only ones who made it back, and they shouldn't have. How do they have any more right to survive than the others? They didn't do anything special – they helped end a war, but it wasn't heroics or anything, it was a constant struggle to draw breath each passing day, and most of the times, he thinks it's still ongoing.

The only people who understand are his friends – they sit, the four of them, around their favorite table in their favorite inn in the town, drinking and _alive,_ and it's what they'd always hoped for, always fantasized about, they agree, but there's no... there's no color to it now. Nothing is as vivid as they'd dreamed it. But then again perhaps everything seems more colorful in your head when the world around you is all grey and blood and smoke.

But one thing remains certain – their home has been saved, but not for them.

 

Everything is speeding up. Uncle Bilbo still smiles, still bakes and still complains, but there are shadows to his face that Frodo doesn't remember seeing before, and a heaviness and tension to his shoulders, the way he talks, the way he looks when he thinks Frodo isn't watching him.

Keeping him safe, ensuring that the war never reaches him, was once what kept Frodo going, but it almost looks like his beloved Uncle went through a war of his own while he was gone.

“I told you, I was perfectly fine,” he smiles when Frodo questions him, kneading dough with a lazy meticulousness, his response absentminded, “tried writing, but the time was never right, I'm sure you understand. But it's not like I... suffered, or anything. Of course not. Well, there was that one dreadful cold in the winter...”

“There was?” Frodo murmurs, doing his best to chew and swallow some of his food – he's absolutely certain it's delicious, but everything tastes bland to him, everything tastes the same, like rationed beans and watered-down soup.

“Oh yes. Spent weeks in bed, weak as a leaf.”

“Uncle!” Frodo exclaims.

“It's fine, it's fine, I survived, didn't I?” Bilbo waves his hand dismissively, “to tell you the truth, I don't even remember what had caused it, you know. I think I remember running out while it was raining, to fetch something, or... or find something, but why on earth would I do that? You know?”

He's stopped his work and stares at his hands now, as if he's trying his damnedest to remember, and Frodo looks on with concern.

“You don't remember how you got sick?”

“Mmm? No. Haven't the foggiest,” Bilbo sighs, and his gaze travels back over his shoulder, looking at the doorway as if he's expecting someone to come in any moment now.

“Uncle?” Frodo quirks an eyebrow after a moment of silence.

“Huh – yes?”

“Are you sure you're alright _now_?”

“Am I alright – of course I'm alright! I'm fine! But you won't be, if you don't finish your potatoes!”

Frodo chuckles – it reminds him of ages ago.

“Alright, alright, I'm finishing,” he declares, then, changing the topic for both their sakes, “so you say you haven't written anything since the Captain?”

“What? What Captain – what _about_ the Captain?” Bilbo huffs, glaring over his shoulder all suspicious.

“Nothing! Nothing about the Captain, Uncle,” Frodo sighs.

“Hmm. Well. I did try writing about him again, you know.”

“You did?”

“Yes! There was demand, I'll have you know! People wanted to know more! But I could never quite... I could never quite get the hang of it again. I only wrote a lot of notes, while you... while you were away. Every now and then.”

He looks so much older, Frodo notes, and his food turns bitter in his mouth.

“Well,” he sets his utensils aside, suddenly full for the rest of the day, “I'm glad he kept you company.”

“Did he...?” Bilbo blurts out, that distant look in his eyes again, but then he frowns, scrunching his nose and declaring, somewhat heavily, “yes, well, I suppose he did.”

Frodo smiles at him, and Bilbo watches him with an aching fondness, before coming over and ruffling his hair, saying softly, “he's got nothing on you, though.”

 

He lies in bed sometimes and reads the story, laughing to himself over some passages he's _almost certain_ his Uncle never could have written of his own volition, and it turns out the Captain really _is_ good company – sometimes, Frodo thinks he can almost hear his voice, see his face as it is in the painting in Uncle's bedroom, but softer, kinder, reassuring.

He reads out of the book to Madame Dis as well, every now and then, even though she looks straight ahead at the horizon most of the time, and the dog with his head either in her lap or Frodo's responds more than her – but sometimes, it brings the shadow of the faintest smile to her face, and that is enough.

 

And everything speeds by – time, and years, and events. Beorn never comes back, and the first time Frodo and his friends make the trip to his largely abandoned farmhouse near the forest, is the very last time they see the dog – he runs around the house, searching for his master, and when he doesn't discover him, he dashes in between the tall trees of the forest beyond, never to be seen again.

Sam marries Rosie in the spring, and Frodo drinks and laughs and dances along with the others, still mostly in disbelief of miracles.

He is finding himself restless, more and more often – he watches the horizon as well, and thinks that if he spends his entire life here, with his seashells and books, his Uncle and Madame Dis, then it will speed by him without him even noticing.

It is bad thinking, blasphemous thinking, but it weighs on him nevertheless, until he can't bear it anymore – he doesn't know what he'll be looking for, but he must look for _something._ He must get away.

Bilbo doesn't stop him, wouldn't dream of it – this time, they both know it'll be easier for Frodo to write back home, and to return whenever he wants. And so he does, the first time from France, the next time from Sweden, always returns, and always, right before leaving again, thanks the Captain for keeping his Uncle safe, as silly as it might be.

 

-

 

His sister always used to tell him, _life is not a waiting game. Life is not a war you can win, or an enemy to outsmart, it shouldn't be a battle. It is_ living, _and it can only be done if you commit._

It is odd, then, that he should linger on with most conviction after he has, in fact, died in all but spirit.

When she arrives, he isn't even capable of seeing her as anything but another one of his memories coming back to, fittingly, haunt him. He is too weak, like sea foam dissipating on sand, and he can't hold on, can't welcome her or tell her to leave, can't do anything but watch, and attempt to determine if any of it is real.

If it really is her, then she has aged, tall and proud as ever, but older, in her wrinkles and words both, and she is grieving by default, for everything she has already lost, and for the things only he can see she is about to lose.

But, she is there, and she keeps Bilbo company, and for that, he is glad, even if it is, in fact, nothing but a figment of an echo of his imagination.

 

The first time she touches the harp, with the first tentative melody, though, Thorin knows it is real. It is like his heart re-learning how to beat, and he spends eons memorizing those melodies, those gentle, somber notes, and they are his breath and sustenance. He tries talking, tries reaching out to her, to say everything that's been burdening them both, but he suspects he never will.

No, he's closed himself off from that opportunity now, and for good, doomed to do nothing but watch, until the end of this.

 

_Please remember me._

 

The boy returns, and his has always been the brightest soul, but it is tainted now, drowning in a black tar of terror, and he hears it crying out at night. He says words of comfort he knows the boy won't be able to hear, but says them nevertheless, whispers them to his ear whenever he manages to fall asleep for but a moment, giving comfort where needed, in any way he can.

And as for Bilbo – Thorin isn't capable of registering him anymore, of looking him in the eye. He's hurt him, and he's saved his life, and he's made him forget, and it is all there in his eyes, in the tense lines around them and the weight he carries around with him on his shoulders, and Thorin can't bear it. But he stays, just like he's said, even though he knows he won't be able to keep his promise in the end – he will be long gone, by the time Bilbo's own journey ends.

Still, it comes earlier than expected.

The whisper of his name in the dark, and he can't but turn his attention away from the centuries, eons rolling into each other with each wave gently crashing on the beach, away from the inevitable grind of time, and back to the topmost room of his little house on the shore, to the eyes of his sister gleaming in the dark.

“Thorin,” she murmurs, and she will never be able to hear him, but he responds nevertheless, her name slipping past his lips with an unlikely ease.

“I wish you were here, with me. With us,” she sighs, “silly. Silly silly. I'm leaving tomorrow.”

_I know,_ he wants to say,  _and you'll come back soon enough, your grief now a solidified part of you, like a broken bone that's never quite grown back into place properly._

“I'll find my boys, and I'll bring them back here. They've always wanted to come back here.”

_But they never will again._

“They forgave you. We all forgave you, a long time ago.”

There it is – the words he wanted to hear, needed to hear,  _had to_ hear, in order to move on, and she whispers them into the night, or only thinks them loud enough for him to hear, he doesn't know – it doesn't matter. He gets ready, closes his eyes, waits for the sea to claim him and put his spirit at rest, like a sleep he's long been postponing...

But it never comes.

_What?!_

He was supposed to be at peace now,  _remembered,_ forgiven, dismissed – but everything is tangible still, painfully so, and he doesn't understand.

His life speeds in front of his eyes, and it is a story he's never told in its entirety, a story no one will write now – he grew, and fought, and searched, and conquered, but that was before. He is here now, and he thought there was a purpose to it, thought it was because he had... unfinished affairs, with his family, scores to settle.

But now, his sister leaves, and comes back broken, and he thought he wouldn't have to witness that. Witness her losing the will to speak, to sleep, to read, growing older, smiling for other people's sakes. 

Witness the boy leaving, and coming back, and leaving again, time after time after time, hoping to find something he'd never lost in the first place.

He doesn't understand why.

But he needs only look.

The tree has grown. It is tall, tall and broad, and green, and growing, and Thorin remembers making it so, but he is not the one who's tended to it all these years – he looks, and he sees Bilbo, caressing the bark tenderly with his fingers, or sitting in the shade of it, or treating it's half broken branch after a storm, and he is reminded.

It won't take long. It won't take long at all, and Thorin has already wasted one lifetime in waiting – it's no bother now.

People leave, and people die, and the tree grows. There is a bit of silver in Bilbo's hair at first, and then a lot, and a hunch to Dis' back, and less spring to Frodo's step, but they are still there, and as long as they are still there, so will Thorin be.

He is waiting now, only waiting for the end of his story.

 

-

 

“What on earth are you doing out there? You'll catch your death!”

Bilbo tears his eyes away from the horizon only with the utmost effort, and smiles feebly, letting Dis lead him inside – it is not clear who needs whose support more. 

“I'm perfectly fine,” he croaks as she seats him in his armchair, and her frown speaks volumes.

“Of course you are. I've made warm milk, maybe that'll help you sleep.”

“I don't feel like sleeping yet,” Bilbo chuckles, feeling like a child, in fact.

“Well, I don't feel like listening to you muttering to yourself all night, so you'd better drink this,” she grumbles, but there's a fondness to it.

He accepts the mug, downing it slowly, and she watches on with a scowl, snow white hair in a long braid, eyes the same piercing bright  blue as her brother in the painting behind her.

“Thank you, I think I'll be alright now,” Bilbo announces after he's finished, supporting his claim with a dry cough.

“Yes, I can see that. I'll keep the door open, just in case.”

“I thought you just said you didn't want to be disturbed by my noise.”

“Oh, hush you. Sleep well,” she sighs, steering out of the room, taking his mug with her.

“Good night,” he calls after her.

His attempt to get up from the armchair is everything but a success, and so he gives up on the task, sighing and resting his head back on the headrest, inhaling deeply, and it's as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders – and so he keeps his eyes shut, because there's nothing wrong with a bit of sitting around, especially at his age, now is there?

“Old age,” he complains to no one in particular, “gets you when you're not looking, I suppose, huh.”

_Feeling better now?_

“Actually, I am, yes, thank you. What did you put in that milk?”

Silence, for some time, and he feels himself dozing off.

_Stand up._

“Do I have to? Maybe I'll just take a nap right here, what do you think?”

 

“I think I'd like it if we took a walk.”

 

There used to be an ache behind his eyes, and a crick in his back, and a dull p ain of arthritis in his knuckles , and rattling in his lungs – but all of that dissipates now, like steam over a pot, and his eyes fly open, and he springs up from the armchair with a jump he really shouldn't have accomplished at the age of ninety plus.

The Captain is wearing black, of course he is, and yet he is the brightest, most radiant sight that Bilbo has seen in a while.

“Hello,” he says, and Bilbo's heart stops, never to restart again.

“Thorin,” he exhales.

“Yes. Are you ready to go?”

“How could I have forgotten you?” Bilbo exclaims.

There is momentary sadness to his sky blue eyes.

“Because I wanted you to. My apologies.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo repeats reverently, stepping closer, and his Captain is smiling, wide and beautiful, and he remembers all of it, the impossible span of years long past, every word of their conversations, every unfulfilled wish, the rain and the cliff and the figure seen with the crack of lightning...

“Thorin.”

“It is me, Bilbo. Will you come with me?”

He's extending his hand to him, and when Bilbo reaches out for it, he sees that his own is no longer ancient and bony and covered with age spots, and his lungs expand as they draw in breath with more ease.

“Come where?” he asks, even though he can read the answer clear as day in Thorin's eyes.

“Am I...?” he asks anyway, gesturing vaguely to the house, to Dis and even Frodo overseas, to everything, “what about...?”

“They will be fine. They'll all be fine. It's time.”

“It's time,” Bilbo repeats, and there's joy to be found in those words.

He takes Thorin's hand, and it is solid, and it is warm.

“So,” he sighs, as the front door of the house opens before them, and there's nothing but endless light beyond, the faint sound of the rolling of the sea, “I guess it is over now, then?”

“Hardly,” Thorin is smiling still, offering him his arm, “it is only just beginning.”

 

-

 

In the future, many people will talk of Oak Cottage, and say it has earned its name for the beautiful tree shielding it from the often harsh onslaught of elements, and they will not know even a modicum of the true story – but it will not matter, because the tree will always be there, growing tall and broad, and if you listen closely, you will be able to hear it there. In the murmur of its leaves, in the whispering of the grass, and, if you're lucky enough and you get to step inside the house, in the creak of the old wood, and that strange gentle sound that might as well be the plucking of strings – the story untold and unwritten, of a man who, once upon a time, thought he didn't need adventures, and so he came to live by the sea, only to discover the greatest one of all. And of a man who wasn't supposed to be there anymore, but lingered behind nevertheless. It is a story of two people who were never supposed to meet, but waited for each other anyway.

The story of the ghost, and one Mister Baggins.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then, here we are! This story has been such fun to work on - I set out to write something short-ish, and I guess by my standards, anything that ends up under 100k can be considered that :D I certainly feel very accomplished for managing to squeeze this out in time - I think this is the fastest 70+k I've ever written. You guys have been an INCREDIBLE support, and a special thank you to all my wonderful artists, who have created truly amazing pieces for this fic :') I hope it has concluded to everyone's satisfaction (I did decide to follow the movie more or less to a t)! As always, your feedback is very much appreciated (even though I haven't had the time to respond to comments from the past two chapters yet, sorry about that), and you can come find me and chat with me [on Tumblr](http://bilboo.tumblr.com), too!


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